Ziad Jarrah and the Rather Exciting Adolescence
by ThirteenthStep
Summary: A Lebanese teenager moves to Great Britain after his father is killed in the Gaza Strip by an Israeli airstrike. He soon receives his letter from Hogwarts, and is sent away. He's sixteen, but has no magical education. He is swept up in the fateful year in which Voldemort comes into the open. Complications and deviations ensue. Rating is for language/mild violence.
1. Of Mice and Unrelated Titles

Chapter 1

Ziad Jarrah entered the Room of Requirement, and immediately regretted it. For starters, it appeared he was late for the meeting of the DA. More importantly, there was a couple engaged in a rather wet kiss. The kiss lasted longer than it should have, and Ziad just sort of stood there awkwardly, unsure of whether to leave or interrupt.

This sort of behavior was not really something he had experienced much of where he came from.

Two months ago, he had been in his cramped apartment in Beirut, going to school, doing military training with the other boys on Saturdays at the Hezbollah camp, and generally being a normal Lebanese teenager. Until his Dad was killed in an Israeli airstrike in the Gaza strip, along with a dozen other Hamas operatives. His mother, who never really liked his father and his extremist views, brought Ziad with her to live with her brother in London.

Later on the evening of their arrival, a rather flustered owl had interrupted their dinner by crashing through the window and depositing a letter on Ziad's plate. The owl nipped a piece of his mother's food and flew out into the cold night.

Ziad was, to say the least, rather nonplussed. The letter was made of thick heavy parchment, with "Ziad Jarrah" written in flowery script on the outside.

To make a long story short, a week later he was bundled off to Hogwarts (his mother's motivations for the rush being "free" and "keeps Ziad out of my hair so I can get a job"), sorted rather hurriedly into Hufflepuff (the sorting hat mentioned something about "quotas" and "still an extra bed after _last _year's debacle"), and pushed into bed before he could gather his wits.

It was, to put it mildly, rather too much for the poor boy to handle.

He was, due to his lack of magical education, put into classes with the first years. This was "pretty damn awkward," as one of them so eloquently said in their first potions class.

Ziad immediately recognized Umbridge as a worthless teacher. She reminded him of his dad's flunkies in Hamas and Hezbollah. Rooted to their beliefs, cruel, and unable to think rationally about anything counter to their world view. He heard from another Hufflepuff about a shadowy collection of renegade students, who looked to a boy named "Harry Potter" to teach them Defense, and figured that outlaw learning beat no learning.

And so, one night in December, Ziad asked his erstwhile-friend Justin Finch-Fletchley when and where the next meeting would be.

It seemed that Ziad had misheard the time as an hour later than it really was.

* * *

"Uh... I guess I got the wrong room?"

Ziad mentally kicked himself. That was probably the most ridiculous thing he'd ever said. The couple engaged in a cry-kiss clearly agreed.

"Who the bloody hell are _you?_"

"Um... I'll just leave, yeah?"

The girl, who looked asian, and would probably be quite attractive if she took a shower, brushed her hair, and got a good night's sleep, extricated herself from the boy (a tall, black haired guy with glasses askew) and angrily pulled out her wand.

Ziad was confused. Why was she so angry?

She flicked her wand up and shouted, "Stupe-"

The world went black.

A minute later, the world was still black, but at least he was conscious. He heard muted whispering above him.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Oh... I don't know, I just panicked. Sorry!"

Ziad groggily opened his eyes and winced at the pain from the large bruise on the back of his head, where he'd hit the ground.

He cursed and glanced around the room, messily festooned with mistletoe. Then he saw the two figures kneeling beside him. They were the two who had been kissing.

"Oh shit."

He jumped to his feet and looked wildly for the door.

"Please don't kill me please don't kill- where the hell is the door?"

He pulled out his wand and faced his attackers, knowing it was futile.

The girl sheepishly pocketed her wand and said, "Sorry about that. I just sort of panicked! You could have been a Slytherin and reported to Umbridge!"

Ziad rubbed the back of his skull and pocketed his own wand.

"I suppose I shouldn't have barged in on you in an... ah... intimate moment?"

The two shuffled sheepishly and looked at the floor while blushing.

The black haired boy thought about it for a second and extended his hand and said, "I'm Harry Potter. I suppose you were coming for the DA meeting?"

"Yeah... I must have gotten the time wrong, or something. I'm Ziad Jarrah."

The girl said, "I'm Cho Chang. I've never seen you before, how is that? You look old enough to be a sixth-year."

"Well... It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you sometime. In the meantime, if there's no meeting, I need to go take care of something."

And that's how Ziad Jarrah met the "great" Harry Potter.

* * *

Author's Note:

Well, this is the first of (hopefully) many.

Enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave a review.


	2. Sh-- er-- Stuff Gets Real

Chapter 2

Ziad didn't actually have anything to take care of, but he felt that a more purposeful-seeming exit would appear more dignified than a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, Fate didn't particularly care, as Ziad tripped on his still-unfamiliar robes and crashed into a suit of armor. Twenty minutes and two hundred curses later, he limped into the Hufflepuff common room. He was immediately accosted by a prefect asking him who had beaten him up. Ziad shrugged him off and slumped into a chair.

"Soo... Why weren't you at the DA meeting? And why do you look like you just lost an argument with a troll?" queried Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Ah.. Well, I heard you say the wrong time. I was, ah... Late? And as for the second question, I tripped. Into a suit of armor."

"Nice." Justin returned to his work, clearly rather bored by the conversation.

"I'll... Um... I'll go to- wait, you know what? Do you lot here just kiss in public a lot?"

"Yeah, mate. Why do you ask?"

"Well it seems Cho Chang and Harry Potter are a thing now. You didn't hear it from me."

"Brilliant!"

"Only problem is that she was crying the whole bloody time. What's her problem?"

Justin sighed and put down his quill. "Well, you know how there was an empty bed when you came last month? At the end of last year..."

After a somewhat abridged and probably mostly inaccurate recounting of last year's events, Ziad sat back, closed his eyes, and wondered just what the hell he had gotten himself into.

* * *

The winter holidays soon rolled around, and Ziad stayed at Hogwarts. He spent most of his time sleeping or reading American fiction, which he hadn't been allowed to do in Lebanon.

He didn't expect to get any presents on Christmas, for obvious reasons, so it came as no surprise that he didn't. When the rest of his dorm-mates got up early and began unwrapping presents, Ziad couldn't stay asleep, so he went outside and prayed and studied the Quran by the lake.

Three hours later, he rolled up his prayer mat, stuffed his Quran in his bag, and began trudging back to the castle for lunch. By now the house-elves had figured out to make one Halal meal just for him, which was a relief. Salads for every meal got old pretty fast.

* * *

Winter holiday soon drew to a close, and the students began re-populating the school. Classes progressed as usual (namely, Ziad struggled through first-year level coursework while hanging out with fifth and sixth-years), Umbridge was a bitch, and the DA met regularly. This time, Ziad made sure to arrive at the right time and leave promptly, usually after winking suggestively at Harry (because why not?)

One day he saw a group of students gathered around the notice board in the common room.

"What's the crowd about?"

"Hogsmeade weekend on Valentines Day!" a seventh year witch giggled while making googly eyes at a boy across the room.

"Right, 'cause I know what that is..." Ziad sighed and left for breakfast. Crazy, the whole bloody lot of 'em.

As he rounded a corner, two tall seventh year Gryffindors stepped out in front of him. They were identical. Ziad had noticed them at DA meetings, and was curious as to what they wanted with him.

"So... Our new... Celebrity?" Whispered one of them ominously as they paced circuitously around him.

"Oh yes, brother of mine. It appears this one... Is destined for greatness!"

"Come... Follow us."

They led him up and far into the upper levels of the castle, before stopping in an empty classroom.

"So... Mr. Jarrah, I believe you are taking first-year classes," one of them smirked.

"And that would, I assume, include Umbridge's Defense Against Safety Class?" the other continued.

Ziad could, based on what little of the twin's reputation he could pick up, guess where this was going.

"You want me to stir up unrest among the first-years before your eventual revolution against the Zionists... Er... Umbridge?"

The "ominous" pacing stopped. They glanced at each other and smiled.

"I believe we have found a Fellow." The capital "F" was palpable.

"I'm Fred," he extended his hand. Ziad shook it.

"I'm George," Ziad shook the offered hand.

"I'm Ziad Al-Mohammed Jarrah," he declared, "I offer all of my small power to the eventual destruction of the infidel Dolores Umbridge, _inshallah!_"

* * *

Author's Note:

I can't write too much because of time constraints/lack of inspiration, but I'll post what I write.


	3. Chimes & Bells & Cupids

Chapter 3

Ziad began gathering a posse of first-years from his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. It was, at least at first, a "study-group." As part of the curriculum for this study-group, Ziad had his followers-er... friends read _The Communist Manifesto, Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung, _and the Quran. They met daily for an hour in the library.

"Now... Let's begin our meeting. None of your parents work for the ministry. Most of you are muggle-born or half-blood. You are learning nothing from Umbridge. You have read the books. Now... We shall become a group worthy of the history books. As of now, we are no longer a group of friends studying for a worthless class. We are henceforth... Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts- The Student Movement of Hogwarts. You will refer to me as The Director. Our goal is the annihilation of any infidel Ministry of magic influence on this great institution of learning. We will not shy away from extreme mischief and misinformation. _Inshallah, _we shall smite our foe off the face of... ah... the school. Sorry, I got a little carried away right there."

The first-years- _Taliban- _students... They stared at him. Ziad knew he had chosen right when their jaws clenched, the foreheads creased, and they nodded. One slammed his fist against his chest and shouted "_Allahu Akbar!"_

A group of third year Ravenclaws hushed him angrily.

"_Allahu Akbar!" _he whispered, somewhat sheepishly.

"From now you will not speak to each other of this business. When I plan a mission, I will give it to one or two of you. I will give you the briefing orally. Nothing will be written down as evidence. You will speak to nobody about this mission- you will simply carry it out. Meeting adjourned."

Ziad left the library in the most ostentatiously stealthy way possible, because it was awesome. He whistled and walked rather jauntily- he was sort of understanding why his father had done what he did. Minus the killing and hatred of an entire race, of course. The stealthy organization bit was indeed rather fun. Ziad just hoped there wouldn't be any airstrikes, car-bombings, or invasions in this case.

He wasn't really paying attention when he bumped into somebody.

"Sorry, pardon me." He began moving past.

"Excuse me, you filthy paki mudblood."

Ziad stopped and turned around. A blond little rat fifth-year Slytherin was sneering at him.

"I'm Arab, you ignorant twat. I won't contest the mudblood bit, but never call me a paki."

Damn this stuck-up elitist for ruining his satisfaction!

"You must be that Malfoy kid everyone hates. Must be fun, you know. Being so universally despised."

"Like you even know. You may be older than me, but I know more magic than you ever will."

Ziad punched him in the gut and turned away.

"Sure seemed to help you there, didn't it?"

He chuckled and began walking away.

"Stupefy!"

"Dammit."

For the second time, the world went black.

* * *

"Who's he? I think I've seen him in a couple of DA meetings. He's... Kind of cute, wouldn't you say?"

"Ssshh! I think he's waking up!"

Ziad ran a systems diagnostic. It turned up surprisingly well, considering the fall he had undoubtedly suffered. He wiggled his feet and hands to make sure he wasn't paralyzed. He wasn't.

That's a relief.

Ok... Eyes. Hmm... Ok, yeah, they work.

There were two dark-skinned girls peering down at him like a scientist would look at a specimen under a microscope.

"Hi..." he croaked, "Now, could you tell me if I have any major visible injuries? Like, I don't look Pakistani, do I?"

"Oooh no I wouldn't say so. Not Indian either. We should know."

"Allahu akbar... I don't suppose one of you could, you know, help me up?"

"Oooh sorry. Yeah."

He stood up and brushed dust off his robes. "Thanks. I'm Ziad Jarrah, I think I've seen you in a DA meeting?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm Parvati Patil and this is my sister Padma."

"Mhmm... Well... I suppose I should get back to... Wherever it was I was going. Crap. I forgot where that is."

"Uh huh.." The two girls smirked and walked away, whispering madly to each other.

Ziad sighed, and decided he was probably going to the common room to read, which he did.

* * *

When Valentine's Day rolled around, Ziad decided to figure out what all the fuss was about. After all, according to the Imam at his mosque in Beirut (who was later found dead next to an AK-47 in Afghanistan in 2003), it seemed to be just about the most blasphemous and decadent of Western infidel holidays, which meant it was probably a lot of fun.

Since everyone was leaving for Hogsmeade (whatever that was), Ziad decided he would follow the crowd. Unfortunately, he saw each student being checked for papers. He hung back and watched. The system seemed remarkably similar to the system used at Hezbollah or Israeli Army checkpoints, which Ziad had bluffed or cheated his way through many times.

He saw the two girls, Parvati and Padma, making their way towards the one-Filch checkpoint. He joined them and engaged them in conversation as they handed their papers to Filch. Ziad just sort of looked confident, never looked at Filch, and maintained his conversation.

The cleared the checkpoint, no questions.

Parvati laughed, "That was smooth, Ziad. You look like you've done that before."

"Yeah, back when I was in Lebanon, there were Hezbollah or militia checkpoints all over the place. When I visited my Father in the Gaza strip, there were dozens of Israeli army checkpoints. I'm a pro."

They continued talking about checkpoints until the subject drew itself to a close, which was rather quickly, as it is a rather limiting subject. The two girls began gossiping, as girls are wont to do, it seems. Ziad sighed, and zoned out, because he honestly didn't know enough people to effectively gossip.

"... So Harry and Cho are going to Madam Puddifoots, did you hear?"

Ziad zoned back in. Harry and Cho was something he was actively encouraging, because he still felt exceedingly guilty about interrupting them that one time before Christmas, and had been trying to make it up to the both of them ever since.

"Where's Madam Puddifoots? I need to make sure this works. I owe them a big one." he said emphatically. The twins looked at him with surprise, before grinning and saying, "Follow us."

Ten minutes later, Ziad was staring at the strangest cafe he'd ever seen. It was... ahem... pink. And definitely feminine. Very much so. Inside, he could see Harry and Cho somewhat awkwardly staring at each other, Cho clearly on the verge of tears. Crap. Time for some drastic action to save the day. Ziad rooted through his bag, and found what he was looking for.

* * *

Parvati and Padma shivered in the doorway of the tea shop.

"What'd he say he was going to do?"

"He didn't."

"Oh."

* * *

After a few more painful minutes, Cho mentioned Umbridge. Harry seized on the subject with relief and they passed a few happy moments abusing her, but the subject had already been so thoroughly canvassed during DA meetings it did not last very long. Silence fell again. Harry was very conscious of the slurping noises coming from the table next door and cast wildly around for something else to say.

"Er... Listen, d'you want to come with me to the-..."

At that moment, a figure wearing a ski mask and a camouflage jacket burst into the tea shop, jumped on to Harry and Cho's table, and fired sparks into the air.

"I am The Director! I represent Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts! I am here to declare our Jihad against the imperialist crusaders of the Ministry of Magic and their agents at our glorious school! Only a few among the student body have braved the wrath of the great satan Umbridge! I declare Tehrik-i-Taliban's allegiance with Harry Potter! Allahu Akbar!"

The masked figure grabbed Harry's hand and lifted into the air like a boxer who had just knocked down his opponent.

"Together we shall eliminate the great satan! Thank you, Harry Potter! Thank you, Cho Chang, for standing by him in this great struggle!"

Cho blushed, all tears and awkwardness forgotten.

The waitress just stared at the masked figure, who smashed his chest with his fist before running out the back door.

* * *

Parvati and Padma were still shivering when Ziad appeared from behind the tea shop, chuckling to himself.

"I always wanted to do that!"

"Do what?"

"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. Now, somebody said something about a candy shop...?"

The three of them walked off through the snow.

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm starting to get the feel of this. I wrote ch. 2 while in class, and this when I got home.

I hope to update with at least a short chapter daily, at least for a little while.


	4. The Gunpowder Plot

Chapter 4

_**Masked Man Terrifies Valentine's Day Crowd!**_

Lt. Twombley of Tehrik-i-Taliban slammed the _Quibbler _onto the table in front of The Director. A picture of "The Terrifying Masked Man" gesticulated and silently shouted to a shocked tea-shop.

"I thought you said discretion is how we must succeed... You never said anything about plastering your bloody face across all of England, now did you?"

The Director leaned back in his plush-leather chair (he'd searched all over the school and eventually just had Parvati transfigure one for him. She didn't ask why, and he didn't tell) and sighed. He really wished he could take up smoking a pipe, if only for moments such as this. He searched his brains for a suitably inspirational yet mysterious response.

"Lt. Twombley, I respect your opinion on this matter. Yet I found it to be the best possible situation in which to reveal our existence. You must understand, terrorism without terror is a fool's game."

"I don't think you know what that phrase means."

"Thank you, Lt. Twombley. It doesn't matter either way. If all we do is sit around and be mysterious, what's the point? People are now quaking in their beds as to what our next action will be. Will we blow up an embassy? Will we-"

"Wait what?"

"I was speaking hypothetically." Ziad leaned forward and placed his elbows on the unfortunately not-quite mahogany table. "Please don't worry yourself over such petty matters. The point I'm trying to make is that planned and well-executed exposure is a necessary element of our organization, whether you like it or not."

The students... er.. soldiers sat and contemplated this for a bit. A few nodded, a few looked confused. Ziad idly pumped smoke out of the end of his wand to achieve a more filmesque atmosphere. Lt. Twombley coughed.

"Now... I hope I made myself clear. I've been planning some missions. Soon I will begin delegating them, but only after Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts makes an appearance at the school itself. Be prepared."

A few of the soldiers grinned maliciously.

"Yes, Director."

* * *

One Monday morning, Ziad came to breakfast late. A number of people were whispering and muttering about a magazine article. As soon as Ziad saw the title on the cover of _The Quibbler _he jumped up, knocking over his juice onto his neighbor's plate. After hurried apologies, he jogged around the Great Hall gathering a number of first years. The group formed up and left the Hall.

"What was all that about?" asked Harry.

"Hell if I know. This article is brilliant!" answered Ron.

"What is going on here?" said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.

Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad's eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly.

"Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?" she asked slowly.

"Is that a crime now?" said Fred loudly, "Getting mail?"

George snickered meanly.

"Careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have you put in detention. Well, Mr. Potter?"

Harry hesitated, and glanced at Ravenclaw table. Cho gestured at the copy of _The Quibbler _that she was reading and gave Harry a smile and a thumbs-up.

"People are writing to me because I gave an interview. About what happened to me last June."

Umbridge's cheeks reddened and she puffed up in righteous indignation as Harry threw a copy of _The Quibbler _at her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly shade of violet.

"When did you do this?" she shrilled.

"Last Hogsmeade weekend," said Harry.

"There will be no more-" she glanced around at the sudden noise near the entrance of the Great Hall.

A dozen masked and camouflage-jacketed figures strode into the Hall, with as much swagger as their small bodies could handle. They shorter ones formed a V-formation behind the tallest one who stood with his arms outstretched as he stared around the Great Hall.

At the staff table, Dumbledore leaned forward with interest. Now here was a development he had _not _expected.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." began the obvious leader of the masked intruders. "We are this morning's entertainment. I only have one question: Where's Harry Potter?"

He walked among the silent crowd, staring into the gaping student's faces. When he passed Ravenclaw table, he winked at Padma Patil, whose faced dawned in recognition. He wandered over to Gryffindor table, where he stopped theatrically in front of Professor Umbridge.

"You know where I can find Harry? I need to talk to him about a little something. Just something, a little."

Umbridge stared at the masked man for a good ten seconds before she visibly shook herself and attempted to show that she had regained her composure.

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

The masked man gave a fake cutesy laugh that sounded disturbingly like Umbridge's.

"I am..." he gestured at his followers, who remained rooted in place, arms crossed in the most intimidating way possible. For eleven and twelve year-olds, at least.

"I am your worst nightmare."

He turned towards Harry. "I'm guessing you're Harry Potter, if this witch is on your case."

Umbridge pulled out her wand. "I'm going to ask you again, Mr. Mask. Who. Are. You?"

"I am The Director, and these..." he gestured at his followers again, "these are my students. We are Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts, and I'm here to thank Mr. Potter for his interview in _The Quibbler. _That's all. Have a nice day!"

The masked man pulled a perfect about-face and marched out of the hall.

"Come." he waved his followers to, you know, follow. They did, because otherwise the necessary ominously mysterious exit wouldn't happen.

Harry cleared his throat. "Soo... What were you saying before, about Hogsmeade weekends?"

Umbridge was still staring out the now closed doors of the Hall. Harry could hear the gears turning and clanking in her head from a a good five feet away. He gave a significant glance to his neighbors and they gingerly extricated themselves from breakfast and left the Hall.

"Bloody close call." whispered Ron in awe.

"Too right, mate," responded Harry. "That's the second time that bloke has saved my ass from potential embarrassment.

* * *

Tehrik-i-Taliban gathered in a smoky, poorly lit room with a mahogany table (it had taken some work, but they'd finally gotten one). The Director peered around the table at his followers. The Director noted the need to adjust the lighting so that everyone's faces were in shadow. They'd got the smoke, the dim lighting, and the bloody table. Just one more step.

"Now the world shall feel our wrath."

The Director gave his best-guess as to what maniacal should sound like.

The followers did too. If a total stranger had walked in at that moment, he probably would have called the British Zoological Society to come capture an escaped howler monkey.

* * *

Author's Note:

Don't worry, Ziad isn't going to become a terrorist. Doesn't mean he can't be influenced by his Dad, though.


	5. Grenadaccino

Chapter 5

That night, Ziad lay in his bed and thought. He'd been at Hogwarts for a few months now, and he'd made a few acquaintances and started an underground resistance movement. But, at the risk of sounding clichéd, Ziad concluded (after a few minutes of thinking and a few strange daydreams) that he wasn't really all that happy.

He had spent a while contemplating this, and concluded that the problem was that he hadn't listened to his favorite music since he left the muggle world and went down the rabbit hole and into the insane world of magic. He was looking forward to the end of the year- and the beginning of summer vacation- for just that reason.

Just kidding. The reason he wasn't happy was because he didn't have any real friends.

Ziad rolled over onto his back and let out a huge sigh.

"Can you keep it down over there? I'm trying to sleep." yawned his roommate (whose name Ziad had yet to figure out).

Ziad rolled back over and attempted to sleep. Sleep failed to come, as is usually the case when you think really hard about how much you want to sleep. Eventually he got out of bed, grabbed a book, and went to the common room and read until he collapsed.

Ziad was awakened way too early by the Hufflepuff quidditch team going off to practice.

"Son of a... Do you really have to practice at like.. " Ziad glanced at his watch and groaned, "5 AM?"

"Gotta keep our skills honed, mate. Plus, the other teams have the pitch booked at any other reasonable time. See ya!"

Ziaz rubbed his eyes, yawned, and knew attempting to go back to sleep would be futile. He grabbed his towel, a change of clothes, and took a long and incredibly hot shower.

Before he brushed his teeth, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Black hair, brown eyes, olive-skin (or what used to be olive-skin-a couple of months in northern Scotland had paled him out a bit.). Average height, and fairly thin. He resolved to eat more.

He dressed, grabbed his bag, and went for an early breakfast. He immediately gave up on the whole "eating more" thing and grabbed two pieces of toast and a glass of orange juice. Chewing on the first bite, he reached into his bag and selected one of his books and propped it up against the jug of juice.

"'The Great Game: Struggle For Empire in Central Asia.' Sounds interesting, but not exactly what I'd call enjoyable morning literary fare."

Ziad spun around mid-chew and saw Parvati standing behind him, looking somewhat ill-at-ease but, well (and Ziad cursed his hormones for thinking so), quite pretty, in a sort of really-tired-and-just-got-out-of-bed sort of way.

Unbeknown to Ziad, Parvati was thinking more or less the same thing, but didn't use the word "pretty" because that word just doesn't really apply to Ziad. He's not French, after all. Phrases like "ruggedly handsome" don't work either, but they are somewhat more accurate.

"I don't know, it's pretty fascinating, really. Most people don't really appreciate history, which is a shame. Greatest story ever told, if you ask me."

Parvati sat down beside him.

At Ravenclaw table, Padma pumped her arm and whispered, "Yes!" before returning to her breakfast.

What followed could not, in an terms, be called a particularly comfortable conversation. There were lots of "Um..'s," and "Sorry, you go..'s" and even a few awkward pauses. That's not the point. The point is that it ended with Parvati saying something along the lines of, "Doyouwannagotohogsmeadwithmenextweekend..."

Ziad thought about it, sounded it out, and said, "Yeah, definitely!" although he wasn't entirely sure exactly what he was agreeing to do, as the entire phrase had been said in about half a second and sort of petered out towards the end.

"Great!" Parvati jumped up, blushed, and ran back to Gryffindor table, where the few people who were there at this hour of the morning quickly flocked to her like seagulls to a piece of bread. They sounded sort of like it too.

Ziad returned to his book, wondering if perhaps his prayers had been answered.

He finished his toast, stuffed his book back into his bag, and got up from the table. On his way out of the hall, Parvati just "happened" to be leaving at the same time.

"Oh, hello."

"Hi."

They stood there, blushing at each other.

"So, what class do you have now?" Ziad asked.

"Transfiguration."

"Oh, yeah, I like that class. Thanks for transfiguring that plush-leather chair, by the way. It's really comfortable and fits the atmosphere just perfectly."

Parvati was pretty clearly confused. "Should I even ask?"

"I think that would be an accident waiting to- oh, no."

He waved vaguely towards the kitchens.

"Any theories about _that?"_

Something golden brown and viscous was oozing out into the corridor from what was just possibly, behind the mounds of stuff, a large painting. As the witch and wizard watched, there was a crash as the painting blasted across the hallway in a deluge of brown bubbles.

"Ooh, that's the entry to the kitchens!" exclaimed Parvati.

"Are you sure? It looks more like a... Ah... I really have no idea."

Ziad stamped forward and scooped up a handful, and sniffed at it.

"Is this some ghastly emanation from Hell?" he said.

"Shouldn't think so. Smells like coffee," said Parvati.

"Coffee?"

"Coffee-flavored froth, anyway. Now, why is it I have this feeling that there's going to be Weasleys in there somewhere?"

A figure lurched out of the foam, dripping brown bubbles. A very small, dirty figure.

"It's a house-elf!" said Parvati.

Parvati waded into the foam. After a moment's hesitation Ziad realized that the honor of young wizardry was at stake, and pushed his way in after her.

Almost immediately he bumped into someone in the fog of bubbles.

"Er, hello?"

"Who's that?"

"It's me, Ziad. I've come to rescue you."

"Good. Which way is out?"

"Er-"

There were some explosions somewhere in the coffee cloud and a popping noise. Ziad blinked. The level of bubbles was sinking.

House-elves soaked in foam began to appear, lying on the ground, clearly stunned.

Professor McGonagall appeared from where Ziad thought the entrance probably was. She stared down at Ziad and Parvati. Coffee dripped from her now-droopy hat, which rather ruined the effect.

"Something bloody stupid's been going on here," she said, "and I'm going to wait quite patiently until you own up."

"I don't see why you should assume it was us," muttered Ziad.

"Oh, so I find you two in the kitchen (which is out of bounds, I might add!), covered in frothy milk, with a number of stunned house-elves lying about, and I'm supposed to look for more evidence? Do I look like a court of law?"

Ziad looked, and decided she looked rather un-courtly. "A fair point," he conceded.

A drift of froth twitched, and a figure slowly crawled forward. It opened what looked like a mouth.

"Dean said the coffee ought to be frothy." said the apparition of a Gryffindorish persuasion, "and he did some simple magic and I rather think we got carried away."

"Oh, bloody hell, not again." said McGonagall.

A second drift of froth twitched.

"I think-" it declared, "That perhaps this is not worth a Cappuccino."

"It was damn fun, though." the first pile said, "It was incredible when that one cup exploded like that! That blast must have been equivalent to a grenade, but instead of pain- it's coffee!"

"Yeah! Oh. Hello, professor McGonagall."

Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and banished most of the frothy coffee, revealing the two piles to in fact be Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, who Ziad had met during DA meetings.

"Should I even ask what you were doing?" sighed McGonagall.

Dean stood up and rather futilely attempted to brush off the masses of foam still clinging to his robes. "I thought I'd try to make some Cappuccino. You know, basically it's frothy coffee?"

McGonagall scooped a handful of frothy coffee out of her pocket, "I'm now well aware, Mr. Thomas."

Seamus continued, "Well, we got a bit carried away with the magic," Dean elbowed him, "Actually, um, it was mostly me. But it was an accident, I swear!"

Professor McGonagall sighed, "I suppose you'd better go take a shower and change out of those clothes. Ten points from Gryffindor, and please don't try anything like this again." she turned towards Ziad and Parvati, "And you'd better clean up as well."

Ziad and Parvati left behind Dean and Seamus, who were engaged in a whispered argument about whether or not they should try to make various other culinary masterpieces with magic.

* * *

Author's Note:

Whether or not Ziad/Parvati becomes official or not is still up for debate. We'll see how it goes, shall we? Indeed we shall.


	6. Plush Leather and Pompousity

Chapter 6

It was the first DA meeting after Christmas break, and Parvati Patil was doing a few preparatory stretches (she didn't want a repeat of a previous meeting where she had sprained her ankle during a failed attempt to dodge a stunner). She was one of the first people there, so she zoned out as the rest of the would-be outlaws filed in. She barely noticed as a newcomer entered- a Hufflepuff who looked to be a fifth or sixth year, with olive-skin and mid-length black hair.

"Excuse me," he asked the person closest to the door- Ginny Weasley- in a lightly accented voice, "I'm assuming this is Dumbledore's Army, as I'm not currently dead or in some horrible circle of the Dungeon Dimensions?"

Ginny stared for a second before answering, "Uh... Yeah. Yeah, that's us."

"Excellent." The newcomer rubbed his hands together in a decidedly evil way.

Far from being the evil foreign genius he acted like, he was in fact more akin to a fumbling child when it came to magic. He clearly knew next-to-nothing. Yet despite this handicap, in that first hour he devoted himself to learning. Parvati didn't pay a lot of attention at first- she didn't even learn his name- but she did notice that he had managed a weak stunner by the end of the meeting.

During the next meeting, she payed a little more attention, as she was now somewhat interested following her discovery of his unconscious body lying defenseless in the hallway. He had clearly improved, but he said little, his face screwed up in concentration as he practiced spells everyone else had mastered years before. She felt kind of sorry for him, as he was never able to match anybody, even the youngest in the group, in a duel. He left sweating with a downcast expression painted on his face.

After their excursion to Hogsmeade, he had more confidence in himself, but he refused to talk about his remarkably low magical abilities with Parvati or Padma. When Harry broached the subject at the next meeting, he shrugged him off and left limping and soaked in sweat.

The next week he entered the room smelling faintly of cigar smoke. For the first time, he cast a stunner that fully incapacitated his target, but he was handily defeated by Dennis Creevey in a duel. He was clearly improving, but in baby steps.

Then, they began working on Patronuses, which everyone except Ziad had been very keen to practice, though, as Harry kept reminding them, producing a Patronus in the middle of a brightly lit classroom when they were not under threat was a very different from producing it when confronted by a real Dementor.

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy," said Cho brightly, watching her silver swan-shaped Patronus soar around the Room of Requirement during their last lesson before Easter. "They're so pretty."

"They're not supposed to be pretty, they're supposed to protect you," said Harry patiently. He spent quite a while helping Neville.

"You've got to think of something happy," Harry reminded him.

"I'm trying," said Neville miserably.

Seamus, then Hermione, then Dean finally achieved a Patronus.

Parvati fired a bright silver ferret out of her wand and _oohed _in appreciation, when she caught a glance of Ziad standing in the corner, not even trying. She walked over.

"Are you okay?" she muttered.

"Yeah," he said, "I just... I can't really think of any time or place where I was really all that happy. Satisfied, sure, but that's not enough."

"Maybe you're thinking about it the wrong way."

His face clouded in thought, before a light lit behind his eyes and cleared the clouds away.

"You know what? I think I might have something."

He cleared his throat, shook out his robes, extended his wand, and shouted, "Expecto-!"

The door of the Room of Requirement opened, and closed. Dobby scrambled in, his eyes wide with terror. The room fell silent, and the last Patronuses faded away into silver mist.

"Harry Potter, sir..." squeaked the elf, "Dobby has come to warn you... but the house-elves have been warned not to tell..."

Harry seized the elf before he could hurt himself. "What's happened, Dobby?"

"Harry Potter, she... she..." Dobby hit himself in the face with a free hand, which Harry promptly grabbed.

"Who's 'she', Dobby?"

"Um... Umbridge, Harry Potter sir..."

"Has she found out about us- about the DA?"

The elf wordlessly nodded.

"Oh... Shit."

Ziad couldn't help himself from muttering, "Understatement of the Year Award, much?"

Parvati elbowed him, eyes wide with fear, "Now is not the time!" she hissed.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Harry bellowed, "RUN!"

They all pelted towards the exit at once, forming a scrum at the door, then people burst through. Ziad and Parvati found themselves at the rear of the pile-up, Padma turned and gave one last fear-filled glance before disappearing out the door.

Ziad grabbed Parvati's hand to steady her as they sprinted down the hall. Unfortunately, they ran straight in to a band of Slytherins, all holding their wands.

Draco Malfoy pointed his want at Parvati. Ziad threw his arm out and rather miraculously (she thought for about half a second) caught the stunner in the palm of his hand. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Parvati reached for her wand.

"Don't even think about it," sneered Malfoy.

(Malfoy later cursed himself for not saying "Make my day!" but hey, you can't win 'em all)

Umbridge appeared around the far corner, breathless but wearing a delighted smile. She ogled the two captured outlaws, and kicked Ziad's unconscious body (he seemed to have a bad habit of getting stunned, which he later resolved to break).

"Excellent, Mr. Malfoy! I suspected this... This foreigner was up to no good. Thirty points to Slytherin!"

Umbridge flicked her wand at Ziad, "_Innervate!"_

Ziad groaned, and opened his eyes, and promptly closed them again.

"Oh... Shit. I should have stayed in goddamn Beirut..."

Umbridge giggled disturbingly before saying, "Hop along now and see if you can round up any more, Draco. Look for anyone out of breath." She whirled on the Parvati and Ziad and added in her softest, most dangerous voice, as Malfoy walked away, "You can come with me to the Headmaster's office."

* * *

The office was full of people. Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, his expression serene, the tips of his long fingers together. Professor McGonagall stood rigidly beside him, her face extremely tense. Some old guy in a bowler hat was rocking backwards and forwards on his toes beside the fire, clearly immensely pleased with the situation. Two men who looked like hired muscle were positioned on either side of the door like guards, and a young man who had to be a Weasley hovered excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take notes.

Ziad pulled himself free of Umbridge's grasp as the door swung shut behind them. The pompous man with the bowler hat glared at him with vicious satisfaction on his face.

"Well," he said, "Well, well, well..."

Ziad groaned to himself. He was one of _those _important people. The kind who have to say "Well... Well, well well..." whenever they meet new people.

"They were running from the scene of the crime," said Umbridge, "The Malfoy boy cornered them."

"Did he, did he?" said Mr. Pompous, "I must remember to tell Lucius. Well, whoever-you-two-troublemakers-are, I expect you know why you're here?"

Ziad glanced at Parvati, who had seized up with fear. He glanced back at Mr. Pompous and said, rather truthfully, "No, not really. I didn't know it was a crime to walk through the hallways of the school I attend."

"Well... Well, well well..." Mr. Pompous said.

"Oh, for the love of-"

"Shut up!" Umbridge slapped the back of Ziad's head.

Dumbledore did nothing but watch the events with polite amusement.

"So you have no idea," Mr. Pompous said, "why Professor Umbridge-"

"Excuse me, but I haven't the foggiest idea of who you are and why you have the right to berate me in such a manner."

Mr. Pompous looked incredulously at Ziad, at Dumbledore, and then at Parvati who had given a little squeak of what may have been laughter. He decided it was probably fear. Of course it was.

He puffed out his chest and said in the most pompous manner possible, "I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."

Ziad sighed, "I'm sorry, but I'm not a citizen of Great Britain, so I'm not subject to your authority. I'd like to talk to a lawyer, and also contact the Lebanese embassy before you say anything else."

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. Parvati groaned. Ziad lost a little confidence.

Fudge scoffed, "I'm sorry, but that is ridiculous. You are in Magical Britain. Muggle diplomacy means nothing here."

Crap. Well, Ziad thought, I may be well and truly screwed this time.

"Anyway," Fudge continued, "you seem to be implying that you have no idea, none at all, that an illegal student organization has been discovered within this school?"

Ziad thought for a minute before replying, "Well, yeah, of course I do. Everybody does. They busted in a few weeks ago and said some pretty ominous stuff in the Great Hall. Everybody saw it."

"Ah yes, the Terikal Talben Hogwarts-"

"Tehrik-i-Taliban."

"Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing. Just mumbling to myself."

"Right. Well, Dumbledore, I suppose we'd better fetch our informant, if these two refuse to talk."

Umbridge left the room and returned several minutes later with one of Cho Chang's friends. Ziad couldn't remember her name, but Parvati released a betrayed gasp.

After the usual pre-informant niceties and the revealing of the ugly scarring on her face, Fudge cut right to the chase. "Who else was there? What happened at this meeting? Was its purpose the overthrow of the Ministry (Ziad scoffed. "Oh, please")?"

The informant refused to speak (which, Ziad thought, rather negated the purpose of informing in the first place. People just couldn't even betray correctly in this place)

Umbridge sighed, "The purpose of these meetings was to persuade them to join an ileegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Ministry has decided are inappropriate for school-age-"

Finally, Dumbledore decided to live up to his reputation. "I think you'll find you're wrong there, Dolores."

Ziad looked up, and stared at Dumbledore. Parvati had a hopeful expression on her face. Ziad was less-than-enthusiastic. There was no way in hell even a man with Dumbledore's reputation could talk them out of this. Fudge clearly thought the same, and expressed as such in a rather pompous manner (the poor man just couldn't help it. That level of pompousness is inherent in someone who is short and wears bowler hats, and is only magnified when he is in a position of power. Interestingly enough, eighteenth century magical scientists Florian & Wattson actually performed a study on this phenomenon and concluded that the highest level of pompousity was achieved through the combination of a bowler hat, three green hairpins, an orangutan, and a model 3 wool Class A Robes made by Mrs. Wattson).

"Cornelius," Dumbledore said, "I can't deny that these two were undoubtedly in some clandestine meeting, the purpose of which is a major breach of school rules, but I will say that I really do not believe all this-" he waved at the two security guards- "is necessary, let alone involving the Minister of Magic. It is a matter of school discipline, not law enforcement."

Fudge puffed up even more (quite an achievement, Ziad thought), "On the contrary, Albus! It is the Ministry's duty to investigate any, and I mean any!, threat to Magical Britain, and I believe this organization represents just such a threat!"

Arguments and negotiations ensued.

Ziad sighed and rocked on his toes to get his circulation going again. From his experience, these sorts of arguments could go on for hours. He zoned out and let his eyes explore the room. It seemed like generic Eccentric Wizard stuff that any respectable Eccentric Wizard should have in his room. It probably came in a box-set.

He looked at Parvati, who had gotten over her paralyzing fear and had began to grow bored herself. He waggled his eyebrows at her in an attempt at levity. It didn't work because she looked away at the last minute, meaning he presented the back of her head with a rather funny facial expression.

Oh, well. Such is life.

Finally, the argument seemed to peter out. Neither Fudge nor Dumbledore looked particularly happy. Neither was Ziad. It was getting late and he wanted to get some sleep sometime this century.

"Hurry up, you old bastards." he muttered.

"What was that?" smiled Dumbledore.

"Slip of the tongue."

Fudge turned towards Ziad and Parvati, "Well, Dumbledore has talked me out of throwing you two in Azkaban (Parvati coughed, she clearly had not known that was on the table), but I'm afraid you're now in the hands of Hogwarts justice. But be warned, if you put another toe in any clandestine meeting or subversive cell of insurgent innuendo..." Fudge racked his brains for a second, "Or... Rebellious rookery, you _will _face the consequences." He jabbed Ziad in the chest with a pudgy finger, gestured at his employees and attempted to sweep out of the room. It was more of a shuffle, because the door didn't really do what he wanted it to do, and he had to stop and wait for his employees, so it rather failed to achieve its effect.

Ziad shook his head. Amateur.

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair (which Ziad noted was a very nice plush-leather one, that creaked appreciatively).

"Er... Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Mr. Jarrah?"

"Do you mind, uh... Where did you get that chair?"

Everyone stared at Ziad, jaws agape.

Ziad stepped back defensively, "Ask a simple question..."

* * *

Author's Note:

Good plush-leather chairs that creak just right are truly in short supply. It should not, therefore, be surprising that Dumbledore would have just such a thing.


	7. Death and Taxes

Chapter 7

Professor Umbridge decided that the best course of action to punish Ziad was to give him two weeks of nightly detentions. With no proof as to his insurgency and the failure of Cornelius Fudge to get Dumbledore out of the picture, she was left somewhat impotent, and took that out on Ziad. Parvati was merely placed on a form of parole.

At eight PM sharp Ziad stepped into the pink explosion of Umbridge's office. She smiled sweetly at him and gestured at a small stool and writing table with a small slip of paper and quill.

"Tonight you will be doing lines. You will write, 'I will obey school rules' as many times as it takes the lesson to, ah, _sink in._" She gave a creepy little laugh.

Ziad sat down and picked up the quill. Umbridge returned to her work. He put the quill on the paper. He wrote _I._ A sharp pain pricked the back of his right hand. A faint red mark appeared. Umbridge glanced over at him and smiled at his sudden grimace of pain.

"Continue, Mr. Jarrah."

Ziad looked at the paper, at the quill, and at his hand. He concealed a grin. He could beat this.

* * *

Two hours later, Umbridge looked up from her work and gave Ziad a fake smile.

"Let's see how well you've learned your lesson."

She grabbed his right hand and looked at the back of it.

She blinked. She looked again.

"Ah."

* * *

When Ziad left her office, he cradled his hand gingerly. Parvati was waiting outside in apprehension.

"What did she do to you? I heard she tortured Harry or something."

"It's all fine. She just made me write lines."

Parvati looked a little disappointed. "Are you sure she didn't use unforgivable curses on you, waterboard you, use Chinese water torture, or whip you?"

Ziad glanced at her in surprise. "Well, aren't you a little sadist."

She looked a little hurt. Ziad grinned maliciously and wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a conspiratorial manner.

"See," he showed her the back of his hand, she gasped and then laughed out loud, "I am too."

* * *

Later, Harry pulled Ziad aside.

"Hey Ziad, I heard Umbridge has you in two weeks of detention?"

Ziad smiled. "No, she decided to cut me some slack. Just the one night."

Harry looked confused, "How'd you pull that one off? I feel like I've had detentions with her half the bloody year?"

Ziad showed Harry the back of his hand.

"Oh."

Then Harry face-palmed. "I should have thought of something like that before. Stupid!"

Ziad laughed and re-wrapped the bandage around his hand, covering the, _ahem, _rather vulgar drawing now scarred across the back of his hand.

"She even tried to heal it, but it turns out that quill does its job a little too well. Then she gave me this bandage and told me to leave. Bloody silly, really."

Harry laughed and slapped Ziad's back. "Good going, mate. See you around." He walked off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

* * *

Easter holiday began the next day, and Ziad spent most of the time sleeping, praying, and reading as his friends prepared for the OWL's. He helped Parvati study, but usually she got frustrated with his ignorance and ended up teaching him half the crap she had to learn, which resulted in her actually knowing the information better, as well as an increase in Ziad's knowledge.

But mostly it was just boring, with no DA meetings, classes, or eruptions of demons from the Dungeon Dimensions.

* * *

Classes started up again, and due to the lack of DA meetings, April seemed to be shaping up to be an incredibly dull month.

Parvati and Padma were walking to the owlery to send a letter home when they heard a strange sound coming from behind a closed door. It was a quiet whimpering sound, almost like someone crying.

"You don't think it's something... Occult... Do you?" muttered Padma.

"This _is _a magical academy, you know," responded Parvati.

"Well, yes, but _more _occult is what I mean."

"Keep it together, will you?

"I _am _together-"

"Remember what mum told us- if we are united what can possibly harm us?"

"Well, for one, a great big-"

"Shut up!"

Parvati pushed open the door. The room behind was warm and quiet, except for the soft sound. It was full of old school books that quietly rustled in time to the crying sound.

"It sounds pretty upset," whispered Padma.

"No shit, Sherlock."

They rounded the corner of a thirty-foot pile of potions textbooks and found Ziad Jarrah sitting down in a creaky old plush-leather chair, softly crying and clutching a letter in his left hand.

They stared at him for a bit. He eventually sighed, looked up, and said, "Usually some form of comforting happens, or somebody says 'oh no, what's wrong?'"

"Oh no, what's wrong?" repeated Parvati and Padma in unison.

Ziad sighed and waved the letter, "This is what's bloody wrong."

Parvati and Padma looked at the letter. It was a very official typed document, clearly of muggle origins, and utterly indecipherable as it was written in Arabic.

"So, um..." Parvati said, "What's the letter say?"

"'Dear Mr. Ziad Jarrah," Ziad read aloud,

"We regret to inform you of the death of your sister, Mariam Jarrah, on April 18th, 1996. She was working at the UN Compound at Qana when it was hit by Israeli artillery fire. Her remains have been interred in Beirut.

My sincere apologies,

Robert McCormack (UNIFIL team leader- Irish Defense Forces)'"

Ziad gave a mirthless laugh. "My sister has worked for the UN to help orphans displaced by the Lebanese-Israeli conflict since she was a teenager. I hate to see the irony in this, but it sure as hell is there."

Parvati and Padma glanced at each other. "I'm... Terribly sorry, Ziad," Parvati said, "I really am. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Ziad looked at the ceiling and dragged his sleeve across his face. "No. Just... Don't talk about it, I guess." He laughed again and pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket, this one hand-written in hesitant English. "This one's from my mother, in which she apologizes and says she will have to return to Lebanon to clear up her poor daughter's effects." Ziad scoffed, "My mother hated my sister since from the moment she was born. My father did too, especially after my sister was old enough to debate politics. I guess she didn't hate Jews enough for him."

Ziad continued, "When she turned sixteen she ran off with an Israeli soldier. Then he got killed a week later and she ran away to Israel. She stayed in Jerusalem and married an Israeli. She got the job with the UN. She made more money in a year than my father saw in his life. My father and his comrades decided to plot an attack on Israel, so they went to Gaza, leaving me and my mother in Beirut. When we found out he had been killed, we left for Britain the next day, leaving everything behind. We arrived with no money. So my mother will be after my sister's money. Greedy bitch."

He went silent.

Parvati and Padma left and sent their letter, feeling rather fortunate with their lot in life.

* * *

Ziad spent the rest of April and May rather depressed. He didn't talk very much, and then only in direct response to questions. He stopped showing up to Tehrik-i-Taliban meetings, which resulted in the effective disbandment of the group.

Exams came and went, OWL's were given.

Parvati left the History of Magic OWL feeling rather muddled and exhausted. Ziad was waiting outside, hands tucked into his pockets, circles under his eyes.

"Hey, Ziad."

"..."

"It went fine, thanks."

"Good." he muttered softly.

Parvati sighed, and felt guilty for feeling irritated at him. He had suffered severe emotional trauma, after all. But he didn't need to make everyone else so depressed, did he?

They were walking down a corridor when Ginny Weasley stopped them and shouted to the slowly-gathering crowd, "You can't come down here! No, sorry, you're going to have to go round by the swivelling staircase, someone's let off Garrotting Gas just along here-"

"I can't see no gas," said one surly Gryffindor.

"That's because it's colorless," said Ginny exasperatedly.

Ziad grumbled and was turning around when he saw a flash of the back of a hand- with strange letter-like red scars etched across it. The funny thing, though, was that the hand was completely disconnected from a body. Ziad stopped, and Parvati did too.

"What's up?"

"I... I just saw..." When Ginny's back was turned, Ziad walked down the hallway, and failed to choke on any 'gas.' He saw Umbridge's office door swing open seemingly of its own accord, and then swing shut. He stood outside the door for a minute staring. He heard muted conversation withing. Parvati walked up beside him.

"Who is that? It's not Umbridge. And why was Ginny talking about Garrotting Gas?"

"I don't know," answered Ziad.

At that moment, a large group of Slytherins rounded the corner, holding Ginny, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom hostage.

"Huh. We should probably run."

"Yeah."

They stood still. Malfoy's wand flicked out and, for once, didn't stun Ziad, but simply bound him with ropes of air. Parvati was similarly bound.

"Well, isn't this a fun way to spend an afternoon."

"Seriously, Ziad? Where was this sense of humor the last month-and-a-half?"

"It hits me at the strangest times, doesn't it?"

Umbridge appeared as well, and the motley crew was trouped into her office, where Umbridge pulled Harry out of a fire (Ziad kept his shock at seeing someone voluntarily sticking their face into an actively burning fire to himself).

To make a long story short, they were interrogated for a while. Umbridge yelled at them all before Hermione and Harry were dragged out towards the forbidden forest for some reason (Ziad must have missed something- he generally tended to zone out and daydream during times of intense stress). The rest of them were left with the falsely confident Slytherins.

"Soo..." Ziad said, "Did you hear? Brazil won something in Football."

Everyone groaned.

"Goddammit." Parvati muttered.

"Everyone shut up!" Malfoy squeaked.

"Have it your way."

"I said-"

Ziad twisted and managed to catch Goyle (who was the one responsible for guarding Ziad) in a tender spot between the legs with his knee. Goyle collapsed and the bonds holding Ziad were released. Malfoy stared at Ziad, and for once failed to stun him before Ziad's fist crashed into his throat. Malfoy collapsed, choking.

The rest of the Slytherins were doing nothing, which allowed the others to free themselves using a couple of stunners, a disarming charm, an impediment jinx, and a bat bogey hex.

Ron looked at Ziad.

"That was the coolest thing I've ever seen happen regarding Malfoy."

They all looked at Malfoy, who was slowly choking to death on his slowly swelling larynx.

"Can somebody do something to prevent him from dying?" said Ziad.

"Do we have to?" said Ron.

Parvati sighed and flicked her wand. Malfoy stopped choking.

"Damn." sighed Ron.

Neville looked at them all. "We should go help Harry and Hermione. There's no telling what could happen in the Forbidden Forest. That's why it's Forbidden"

"Oh, I thought it was forbidden because it was full of candy and happiness."

"Shut up, Ziad."

Twenty minutes later, Ziad found himself riding a rather bony winged horse (Harry called it a "Thestral," Ziad called it an "AAAAHHHH OH GOD!") towards London and God-knew-what.

This had certainly been quite the most interesting six months in Ziad Jarrah's sixteen years of life.

* * *

Author's Note:

After this chapter, all further chapters will be titled with a song title. If you know the song, good for you.


	8. Mean Old Levee

Chapter 8

They flew the damn magical horses for what seemed like hours (and probably was, based on the distance between northern Scotland and London). Ziad had never flown before, on airplane or demon horse, so this was a new and unique experience for him.

When the "Thestral" began its descent into the heart of London, Ziad swore to never leave the ground again, to prevent himself from heading towards it at such an extreme velocity.

Fortunately, the Thestral had a more graceful landing than Ziad expected. Despite this stroke of luck, Ziad fell flat on his face.

"Real graceful." quipped Parvati.

"Thanks, I've been practicing."

Luna landed and slid off her mount with unerring ease, and asked, "Where do we go from here, then?"

"Over here," said Harry, and led them into a red telephone booth.

It was rather cramped.

"Whoever's nearest the receiver, dial six two four four two!" said Harry.

Ziad bent his arm and jammed some buttons. Nothing happened.

"Six four two two four, right?"

"No, six two four four two."

"Oh, my bad."

Ziad tried again. A cool female voice sounded, "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

Harry glanced around the booth and said, "Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ziad... what's your last name?"

"Jarrah."

"-Ziad Jarrah, Parvati Patil, and we're here to save someone, unless your Ministry can do it first!"

"Thank you," said the cool female voice. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

Eight badges slid out of the metal chute where returned coins normally appeared. Parvati scooped them up and handed them out. Ziad glanced at his, _Ziad What's Your Last Name Jarrah Jarrah Ziad Jarrah, Rescue Mission._

"Dammit!"

Parvati looked at the badge and giggled.

Harry whirled on them. "Now is not the time for you two's crap!"

"Sorry."

The floor of the telephone box shuddered and they slid down the rabbit hole towards inevitable doom, or at least a ripping good story.

Harry led them through the empty and silent corridors of the Ministry. Ziad marvelled at the hideous mixture of Fascist, Soviet, and Gothic architecture that constituted the Ministry.

"Damn, they should have hired a competent, or at least sane, architect."

Hermione sighed and said, "Well, they hired Bloody Stupid Johnson, which was clearly a mistake."

Ziad stared at the black tiles and general nastiness, "No kidding. You'd think with a name like Bloody Stupid they would have though twice about giving him money."

Harry stared at them.

"Hello? We're trying to save my Godfather from a mass murderer. A little appreciation for the danger of your situation would be..." he thought for a minute, "... Appreciated."

"Nice."

"Shut it."

They ran deeper into the bowels of the Ministry, taking at least one elevator and passing through a dizzying number of doors. In one room that they entered accidentally, a tall archway with a continuously swaying veil sat on a dais in the center. Ziad was intrigued by the veil, he heard something, an angry muttering behind the veil.

"Somebody's... Whispering behind that." said Harry.

"Nobody's talking, Harry!" said Hermione, tugging his arm to get him to leave.

"Whispering? It sounds like my parents having an argument. Which is to say loud, incomprehensible, and very angry." said Ziad. "I presume what you're hearing is in English?"

"Yeah... I think so."

"I'm picking up some Arabic, and a bit of Hebrew. Some Farsi and Urdu, too."

"Weird..." Harry began walking towards the archway.

"I can hear something too," breathed Luna, joining Harry and Ziad in staring at the veil.

Eventually, after much urging from the perhaps more sane members of their party, they trouped off again towards who-new-where.

Evidently, Harry new where, as upon opening one of the next doors he stopped and said, "_This is it!" _

After leading them through another strange room and through another door and finally into a massive and dark church-like room full of towering shelves covered in small, dusty, glass orbs that glimmered dully in the light issuing from candle-brackets set at intervals along the shelves.

Harry ran down the shelves, muttering to himself. Eventually they found the shelf they were looking for: ninety-seven.

The group stood bunched around the end of the row, gazing the alley beside it. There was nothing there.

"He's right down by the end," Harry said, "You can't see properly from here."

Ziad whispered to Ginny, "Who is he looking for, exactly?"

"His Godfather, Sirius Black. He's been captured by V-V-Voldemort."

"The guy who killed like a zillion people?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

Harry ran recklessly down the row, whispering stuff along the lines of, "He should be here, anywhere here, really close..."

Naturally, nobody was there. They reached the end of the row and emerged into the silent, empty candlelight.

"I... I don't think Sirius is here." said Hermione.

They stood there rather awkwardly. Neville was gazing at one of the glass orbs. Ziad apprehensively gripped his wand, "You did say Voldemort was here, right?" he whispered at Ginny.

"Yeah, I did."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit!"

Neville turned, "Harry, look at this. It's got your name on it."

Harry looked at where Neville was pointing.

"My name?"

"Yeah."

Indeed, the orb did have his name on it. Harry reached out and grabbed it. Nothing dramatic or frightening happened.

Unless you counted when a drawling voice spoke out from beyond the confines of the intrepid students, "Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."

Black shapes emerged out of thin air all around them, blocking any potential escape routes. Within three seconds a dozen wands were pointed directly at them. Ginny gasped. For once Ziad failed to produce a sarcastic remark. Parvati silently applauded him.

"Give it to me, Potter," repeated the drawling voice as the first man held out his hand, palm up.

"To me."

"Where's Sirius?" Harry said.

Several of the ominous figures laughed. Ziad noted their lack of tactical clothing. Robes? Siriously? Ahem, _Seriously? _Ziad silently rejoiced that he had found himself on this expedition while wearing loose clothing better suited to sitting on a couch eating potato chips than looking darkly ominous.

"Don't do anything," Harry muttered. "Not yet-"

A harsh female voice let out a raucous scream of laughter.

"You hear him? Giving orders to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!"

"Oh, you don't know Potter as I do, Bellatrix," said the leader softly. "He has a great weakness for heroics."

Ziad stifled a yawn. If they had found themselves cornered by hardcore PLO or Hamas extremists they would have been beheaded on international television hours ago.

Harry and the bad guys exchanged quips and threats and shouts until Hermione whispered to him, "Smash shelves!"

Ziad passed it on.

Eventually some sort of revelation occurred with Harry, he got his information from the bad guys voluntarily, and he shouted, "NOW!"

Ziad and the others yelled, "REDUCTO!"

Ziad's spell made a shelf shudder. The others made shelves explode.

They ran for it as the shelves (that had been hit by competent wizards, that is) swayed precariously and began to collapse, bringing hundreds of the glass orbs down with them. Ziad scrambled after the others as they sprinted down the row, firing stunners and shield charms behind them. Ziad felt incredibly useless.

Ziad tripped, and caught a glance of Parvati's horrified face before a shelf collapsed between them, cutting him off and trapping him with a dozen angry Bad Guys. Ziad grabbed a shard of glass and sliced his face and then lay still.

He heard the crunch of boots on broken glass approach.

"This one's out for the count."

"He's unimportant. Leave him."

The footsteps faded.

Ziad counted to sixty three times before opening his eyes slowly. He was alone. He slowly and quietly stood up, and brushed broken glass off his now-bloodstained clothes. He wiped blood out of his eyes and picked up his wand. He slowly crept towards where he thought the exit was. After wandering about for a few minutes he found it, braced himself, and slowly pushed it open.

Beyond the door lay a room in ruins. Broken glass and other debris littered the floor, along with the prone body of at least one of the Bad Guys. Ziad pocketed his wand, knowing it would be useless against even a third-year at Hogwarts, let alone a brutal and obviously powerful wizard or witch. He cautiously made his way through a series of rooms, each as ruined as the last.

He pushed open another door, and beyond it was the room with the arch and veil. Numerous stunned black-cloaked figures were strewn around, but no living soul was to be found. Ziad was feeling scared now. He started running across the room, and threw open doors, panicking.

He ran and ran and ran, and failed to find a single living person.

He ran.

With no other options, he made his way to the atrium.

When he found it, he stopped in horror.

Harry was dueling a witch who may have been pretty once, before she let a Tim Burton fan fill her wardrobe and do her make-up.

She was laughing as she parried Harry's attacks.

Ziad grabbed a piece of rock that had been blasted from the wall and hefted it.

The witch turned her back to Ziad as she casually blocked another of Harry's spells.

Ziad ran.

The witch spun around, her face full of cruel mirth.

Ziad swung his arm as hard as he could.

The witch brought up her arm.

The rock connected with the witch's temple, making a sick crunching sound.

She collapsed like a sack of wet potatoes.

Harry lowered his wand and stared. A steady stream of blood flowed out of the wound on the side of the witch's head. Ziad dropped the rock.

Harry cried out and screwed up his face in pain.

"So, you've smashed my prophecy?" a cold, merciless voice said softly.

A tall, pale, and snakelike man appeared.

"All those months of preparation, months of effort... and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again..."

Ziad just stared, and wisely ignored the chance to make a quip regarding the choosing of the name "Death Eaters" for anything other than a cartoon villain.

The man, clearly the Voldemort everyone was so scared of raised his wand and pointed it at Ziad. |"First I shall dispose of your little friend, who so conveniently murdered dear Bellatrix. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The spell hit Ziad square in the chest. He collapsed, and his shirt evaporated.

"Damn, that was a good shirt, too!" said Ziad as he picked himself up off the ground.

"..." said Voldemort.

"..." said Harry.

"What's the big deal?" said Ziad.

"Normally people are dead at this point." said Voldemort.

Ziad glanced down at the rapidly spreading bruise on his chest.

"Oh. Well then I guess I prefer this particular outcome."

"You would, wouldn't you?"

A deep voice rang out, "Actually, Mr. Jarrah is not a miraculous case. I simply blocked your spell using Mr. Jarrah's shirt, which is rather ingenious if you ask me."

Voldemort sighed and muttered, "Dumbledore..."

"Indeed, Tom."

"Who's Tom?" Ziad whispered to Harry as Dumbledore and Voldemort began their rather impressive duel.

"Tom's Voldemort."

"So... Voldemort is like a _nom de guerre."_

"What?"

"_Nom de guerre."_

"Yeah, I know. What's that mean?"

"It's like a pen-name, but instead of crappy romance novels it's violence."

"Oh. Then yeah."

The duel raged on, and quite a lot of collateral damage was incurred on Bloody Stupid Johnson's masterwork.

Voldemort disappeared.

"Stay where you are, Harry!" bellowed Dumbledore, sounding legitimately frightened.

"Does he just not remember I'm here?" said Ziad.

"You too, Mr. Jarrah."

"Thank you."

Then Harry cried out in pain and collapsed in a writhing heap.

Harry spoke, but the voice that emanated from his mouth was not that of a fifteen-year-old, but instead that of the Dark-Wizard-Formerly-Known-As-Tom.

_"Kill me now, Dumbledore... If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy..."_

Ziad punched Harry _n__é _Voldemort right in the nose.

Harry collapsed and Voldemort appeared in the flesh a few feet away, his face full of wrath.

"You've thwarted me for the last time, Dumbledore!"

"Ok, seriously Voldemort, you are way, _way _too cartoonish."

"Who even are you?"

Before Ziad could respond, the Atrium filled with people who looked like they meant business, and Voldemort snarled and disappeared.

Harry was immediately tended to by Dumbledore, and dozens of the new people, apparently Ministry employees surrounded him.

Everybody seemed to ignore the shirtless and bruised Lebanese boy as if he didn't exist, and had eyes only for Dumbledore and Harry. Ziad didn't mind, but he felt that he deserved at least a little attention. After all, he had killed someone rather brutally, and he was starting to feel a little guilty about it. His hands were shaking.

The reality of the past hour's events came crashing down on him. Hold up, he thought. I just _killed _someone! I just _broke into the government of a magical country and killed somebody! _I just _almost got killed by the most famous dark wizard in history! _

Clearly, some sitting down was to be done. He cast around for a chair before settling for a large piece of rubble. He put his head in his hand, partly to rest and partly to steady his hands from shaking themselves off his arms.

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Parvati looking at him.

"Thank god you're alright," she whispered. "Thank god..."

He stood up and stared at her, "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "So are the others. Ron's a little messed up, but he should be fine."

"_Inshallah."_

Eventually, the crowd of officials got over the fact that Voldemort had returned and noticed the dead body lying in the open. They rushed over to it.

"It's Bellatrix Lestrange! She's dead."

"Bloody hell!"

They immediately turned to Harry.

"How'd you manage it, Harry?"

Harry just stared mutely at them.

"Stop bothering the poor boy," said Dumbledore.

"I did it." said Ziad. Parvati looked at him questioningly. He nodded.

The wizards ignored him and continued berating and congradulating Harry, who looked rather put-upon. Eventually Dumbledore grabbed Harry and the two of them disappeared. The Ministry officials milled about uselessly before somebody managed to organize them and send them into deeper into the building to make sure all the Death Eaters were secured.

Eventually the Atrium was empty save for Ziad and Parvati who just sat there mutely as Ziad stared at the woman he had killed.

* * *

Author's Note:

Whew, this one got a little more serious (sirius?) than I'm used to writing. I hope it turned out alright.

Also, the reason the fifth-year (Ziad's first year) went by so quickly is because the real stuff is going to start during the summer/next year. Things will happen and I've got it all planned (this is the bit where I knowingly tap the side of my nose while I smile ominously). I really appreciate the few reviews I've gotten, and I hope that more of you do me the favor of writing one. I want to get better, and there's only one way to do that.


	9. Dogdom Blues

Chapter 9

Ziad lay in his bed in the hospital wing and thought. Not about anything in particular, because at this moment he happened to be tripping balls on painkillers.

Apparently Dumbledore's "ingenious" spell that blocked Voldie's killing curse had some side effects, like negating any form of magical healing. So, as the wizarding world was a bit out of date when it came to muggle technology, they had clumsily given him quite a bit of morphine and assorted other drugs.

"Heeehhhhhh... _Whoaaaaaaa_." moaned Ziad, as he opened his eyes to a bright new morning.

Ron and Hermione were surrounded by Harry and assorted other people who were lamenting the scars on Ron's arms from the belligerent brains and Hermione's multitude of maladies.

"He's the 'Boy Who Lived' now, is he? Not such a deluded show-off any more, eh?" said Ron. Ziad would have provided the requisite affirmation if he hadn't been busy staring intently at a speck of dust on his nose.

"It's _going to kill me!" _he hissed.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and said grudgingly, "We may have overdone it. A bit."

Parvati scoffed and replied, "Your powers of observation are truly exceptional."

* * *

The year came to an end, and Ziad was released from the Hospital Wing after recently being cured of an addiction to morphine. Fortunately, magic was remarkably useful when it came to curing such addictions.

He returned to his now-vacant dormitory and packed his bag. Everyone else had trunks, Ziad had a U.S. Marine Corps duffel, just one part of the tons of detritus the Marines left in Lebanon after their foray to Beirut in the '80s. The bag earned him some odd looks, but he didn't mind. He was sure that affluent Americans would be using and wearing such military apparel (and paying large sums for it) in a decade or so, probably in some ironic sense. Ziad was comfortable in being ahead of the trend by about a decade.

On the Hogwarts Express back to London, Ziad shared a compartment with Parvati and Padma Patil. It was rather uncomfortable at first, as Parvati didn't really know how to deal with the fact that she was currently sharing a compartment with a killer. Admittedly, that was somewhat alleviated by the fact that he was still feeling a little loopy from all the morphine.

"I told you... It was almost an accident. I mean, I grabbed the rock and ran at her but my arm just sort of swung itself."

Parvati sighed, and nodded. "I understand, Ziad. It's just... I don't know how to deal with all this. First we break into the ministry, people die, and then all of a sudden You-Know-Who's back and we're thrust back into a state of terror. It's all too much for me to handle."

Ziad stared out the window, "And to me it seems like make believe, and glory hallelujah when you walk the night... Hope and faith and sometimes superstition leads me on, through all kinds of weather... I hope that you will think of me when I am gone..."

"... What?"

Ziad shook himself and shot a little water at his face out of his wand, "Sorry, I'm still feeling pretty messed up. Apparently there's still some morphine in my system, somehow. It's all very complicated and probably has something to do with _quantum."_

"You're absolutely insane, you know that?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Water dripped off his face and onto the carpet.

* * *

The train pulled up to the station, right on time, and Ziad hefted his bag and exited the train with Parvati. As they walked down the station, Ziad noticed that the parents of the students were picking them up. He was left somewhat despondent, as he had no money for a train to get him to Newham in East London, where his Uncle lived. In addition, he wasn't sure his Uncle remembered he existed, and he also didn't know if his Uncle lived there anymore.

"Um, Parvati..."

"Yeah?"

"I hate to bother you, but could I borrow a few pounds to take a train home?"

Parvati frowned, "I don't have any money on me. Padma?"

"No, sorry."

"Dad probably has some," said Parvati.

"Thanks."

They pushed and shoved their way through the crowd.

"So where do you live, anyway?" asked Ziad.

"Out in Essex. In a town called Finchingfield."

"Mmm."

Eventually the twins found their parents, and they embraced and exchanged the usual greetings.

Padma whispered into her mother's ear, and they both glanced at Ziad. Mrs. Patil looked him up and down, and whispered back to Padma. They seemed to be speaking Marathi, from what Ziad knew of Indo-Aryan langauges (he'd read a book on it once during a black-out in Beirut).

Parvati was speaking to her father.

"Dad, this is Ziad." They shook hands. Mr. Patil was also looking perhaps a little more closely than usual at Ziad, sizing him up or something.

"A pleasure to meet you." said Ziad.

"Hmm." said Mr. Patil.

"Dad, do you have a few pounds spare that Ziad could borrow? He doesn't have any money to get home."

"I promise to pay you back when I obtain the necessary funds."

Mr. Patil sighed and rummaged through his pockets. He did indeed have some money and grudgingly handed the worn banknotes to Ziad.

"Thank you."

And then they were gone. Ziad stood in King's Cross and watched her... them... leave. He swallowed, and left the wizarding world behind him.

* * *

Two hours later, Ziad found himself outside the dingy apartment building in Newham. He had only been here a week before he was bundled off to Hogwarts. He'd barely left an impression on his pillow. Ziad had spent more time on the boat from Lebanon than he had in London.

He hefted his bag, pushed open the door, and began hiking up the dirty steps to the eighth floor. Upon reaching the aforementioned floor, he made his way to apartment number 814. He stood outside the navy-blue door, steeled himself, and knocked. He heard talking inside.

The door opened to reveal the face of a thirty-something African woman who looked at him questioningly.

"Excuse me, but is this the home of Ayman Mohammed?"

"Who?"

"Ayman Mohammed, I think he lived here about eight months ago?"

"Oh him! No, sorry. He's dead. Got hit by a bus in the City."

"Oh. Um... Thanks. Have a nice day."

The door closed.

"Crap."

Ziad left the apartment complex and sat down on his bag. He still had a few pounds left, and was starting to feel hungry. He debated spending it on food versus spending it on transportation to- well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He bought some food and ate it. He still had a bit of change left over.

He bought a bit more food and ate that too. He had no change left.

"Damn. I'm pretty dumb aren't I."

"Yup!"

"Shut up, Homeless Joe! Nobody likes you!"

"Yup!"

He sighed, picked up his bag, and began walking. No particular destination, no particular goal. He just needed to think and he didn't like being in one place too long. He could get kidnapped, shot, robbed, mugged, bombed, or eaten by creatures emanating from the Dungeon Dimensions if he did that.

He walked. He thought about the last time he was in London. He'd killed somebody, then. She had been trying to kill somebody Ziad kind of liked, which was bad. But he probably didn't have to hit her so hard. Or simply distracted her and allowed Harry to stun her. But none of those were certain to have solved the problem, which was a very angry and very crazy magical person. Ziad concluded that the most reasonable response had been the one he had taken. But he didn't like it, either way.

He walked.

* * *

It was late. He'd been walking for hours. His whole body ached from lugging his bag all over London. Ziad sighed. He hailed a cab.

"Where are you going, laddie?"

Well, that was a surprise. A Scottish cabbie.

Ziad thought about where it was he even _could _go. He said the first place that came to mind.

"Essex."

"That's a big place, son." The cabbie glanced at Ziad in the rear-view-mirror. "Anywhere more specific?"

"Finchingfield."

"That's... Quite a long distance away."

"I can pay."

The Scotsman looked sceptically at Ziad's decade-old olive-drab duffel bag, his worn clothes, and his general downtrodden look.

"Can you prove it?"

Ziad pulled his wand out and flicked it and muttered, _"Confundo."_

That was the only spell he'd become competent with that was any actual use in the real world.

"Right you are, lad. Finchingfield, here we come!"

Ziad slumped in his seat and dozed off.

* * *

At apartment 814, the Nigerian woman was lying asleep next to her husband. She awoke to a tinkle of glass. She shook her husband awake.

"Who's there?" he said, an edge of panic in his voice.

Faint scratching sounds were emanating from the kitchen area. Her husband picked up his cricket bat and crept out.

A flurry of movement caused him to scream and swing his bat before he tripped over and landed heavily on his back.

"Are you OK, baby?"

"Yeah."

"Was there anyone there?"

"I'm not sure. I hit something with my bat. It's got... It's got blood on it."

They looked.

An owl lay in a small pool of blood on the kitchen table, a thick letter tied to its leg.

"What in the name of..."

* * *

Ziad was shaken awake by the cabbie.

"Hey, son, we're in Finchingfield."

Ziad yawned and looked outside. It was the dead of night, and now that he was here he realized he had no earthly idea where in or around Finchingfield he was going. He decided that it still looked a lot more of a safe place to hobo-it-up than London.

"Thanks. You know, I feel really sorry about this, because I really don't have any money."

"It's no problem. I was in a similar situation myself when I was your age." The cabbie sighed. "I was just a lad and decided to live in the United States. New Orleans sounded exotic and exciting, but I was in New York. I can't deny that I stole a few cab-rides on my way down south. So this one's on me. If you need a ride anywhere, don't hesitate to give me a call, but I'll expect payment next time."

Ziad was bowled over by what was perhaps the most clichéd thing that had ever happened to him. Seriously? A wise world-weary old Scottish cabbie who was willing to whisk him away to who-knew-where free-of-charge?

"Good job with the alliteration there, brain."

"What?"

"Just thinking out loud."

Not that he was complaining about it, of course.

"I... I don't know how to repay you, but if the opportunity ever arises, I'll figure out a way."

The cabbie shook his hand.

"Good luck, laddie."

With a tip of his hat (you know the kind), he climbed back in the cab and drove off, leaving Ziad standing in the middle of a town he'd never been to in a country of which he wasn't a citizen, holding a wand and carrying with him several rather strange books about magic.

For lack of anything better to do, Ziad walked. He thought about where the Patil family might place its humble (or extravagant, he didn't know) abode. Perhaps they were more domicile type people. Ziad doubted they were _crash-pad_ or _pied-à-terre _types. Of course, he was completely overlooking the possibility that they were purists, and called their house a _house._

_Nom-de-maison _aside, Ziad needed a way to figure out where they lived, so he could maybe rely a little more on the milk of human kindness before he died of exposure or starvation. But before then, Ziad decided he needed to get some sleep, so he pulled up a nice bit of dirt, lay down, and did just that.


	10. Sunday Morning

Chapter 10

Ziad was awoken by the sound of a motorcycle revving down the road. He rolled over and groaned.

"You, dear Ground, are extremely uncomfortable."

He slowly pulled himself up off the ground and picked up his duffel. He was in a small field just outside a picturesque and quaint English village.

Ziad examined the town as he walked down the side of the road and entered the village proper. This looked like neither an _abode _kind of place nor a _domicile _or even a _house _place, but more like a _cottage _kind of place. Definitely no French names here.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful summer day, and Ziad was feeling famished, which is normal for someone of his age, especially if that someone has eaten once in the last eighteen hours. Ziad, remarkably, _still _had no money, despite being homeless for the better part of a day. He walked around the village green, and failed to find a restaurant, tea shop, or grocery open for business. Then he remembered it was Sunday morning.

Ziad sighed and decided that he could wait until lunch. The only life he saw was a small group of well-dressed people standing outside a church doing whatever it is Christians do on Sunday mornings. He sat down on the green and pulled out a book. He really had no idea about his plans for the rest of the day, only that he had lots of time to fulfill them.

He read for an hour before he was awoken from his book-incurred-reverie by the sound of his absolute favorite song. He slowly turned around and saw a group of young men standing around their motorcycles, generally looking rebellious and out of place in this quaint town.

_I remember when I was young_

_Feeling sick on Sunday morning_

_I don't wanna do it anymore..._

He stuffed his book into his bag and approached the young men.

"That's The Bolshoi, isn't it?"

The Bikers-Errant turned around and sized him up with their eyes while generally giving off an air of confident superiority.

"Yeah it is. So what?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that's my favorite song."

_Oh, how we'd kneel down_

_Oh, we were so quiet_

_Never any light there_

_I don't care, it's not right there_

"Yeah, we always play it on Sunday mornings, just to piss off the old folks. Ever since it came out in 1986."

"Brilliant! _Friends _was one of the only records I had back in Beirut, where I'm from. I don't know why, but my Dad loved that album."

The young men glanced at each other. The apparent leader flicked his chin at Ziad, "Hey mate, why're you here? I've never seen you before."

Ziad looked at his filthy shoes, "Well, I used to live in London with my Uncle, but he got pasted by a bus. My only friends live here, and so I made my way here to ask them for help. Only problem is is that I don't know where they live in this town."

The leader had what passed for a look of pity on his face, "Who's your friends?"

Ziad very purposefully didn't correct his grammar. "They're the Patils. Two twins, Padma and Parvati?"

The young men looked at each other and smiled knowingly. "Lucky guy, are you?"

Ziad blushed, "I don't know about that. But were they to ask, I wouldn't say no, you know?"

"Oh, we know."

"That's a little creepy, you know. They're fifteen."

"Can't arrest us for looking, now can you?"

"Well, actually- you know what, that's not important. Do you know where they live?"

They gave each other another of their trademark infuriatingly knowing looks.

"Yeah."

Ziad waited.

"Well... Are you going to tell me?"

"We can take you there."

Ziad glanced uneasily at the motorcycles. "On one of those?"

"Yeah. These are real rock-n'-roll bikes."

"Is that descriptor really relevant, or important? No."

"You're a real smart-ass, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

* * *

Ziad much preferred riding the motorcycles than the Thestrals. He actually kind of enjoyed it, to a point. He felt a little weird straddling the back of one, but he definitely saw the appeal of pealing down the small Essex roads with the roar of the cylinders.

A few minutes later and as many fields out of town, they pulled up in front of what appeared to be an entirely normal cottage.

"Here? Really? It doesn't seem very... _them."_

Ziad climbed off the bike and slid his bag off his back.

"Well, it's were they live, like it or not."

He looked at the house. It was perhaps _too _normal.

"Thanks, guys." he said, distracted.

"No problem. Anyone who likes The Bolshoi is our friend."

"Mm."

They zoomed off, making as many _vrooooom _noises as they could coax out of their machines.

Ziad was left alone in front of a door for what seemed like the millionth time. He walked up the walk towards the door, which had a large pineapple-brass knocker affixed to its heavy wooden body. He lifted the knocker and knocked once.

He counted to sixty twice. Nobody answered. He knocked again.

The handle turned, and the door opened.

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm incredibly tired today, and I really don't feel like writing any more, but I'd feel bad if I didn't write anything. Hence, this short thing here. I apologize if anybody reading this lives in Finchingfield (or any of the places mentioned in this story, really. I haven't spent much time in any of them) and I totally butchered it. I understand your pain, people write about where I'm from all the time and always mess it up.

Also, please listen to the song _Sunday Morning _by The Bolshoi. It's worth it.

That's all for today, folks. I'll hopefully have something a little longer up tomorrow.


	11. Indian Summer Rain

Chapter 11

Mr. Patil peered suspiciously out at him. "Do you have my money?"

Ziad stood there, stunned.

"Is that seriously the first thing you thought of? Not, oh I don't know, 'what the bloody hell are you doing here?' or 'aren't you that Ziad kid from Hogwarts?'"

"Who the bloody hell are you? Aren't you that Ziad kid from Hogwarts?"

"Thank you. And no, I don't have your money. If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be here right now, about to beg for even more help."

"Hmmph. I suppose you'd better come in and sit down." he looked down at Ziad's shoes, "Leave those outside."

"Thanks."

Ziad slipped off his admittedly filthy shoes and entered the Patil residence. He was immediately struck dumb with awe at the normalnessof it. This was what he had thought an English household would look like when he was in Beirut and never been out of the Middle East and never met an Englishman.

Mr. Patil directed him to the sitting room, which looked exactly like a sitting room should, and sat him down.

"Tea or coffee?" he said in a surprisingly sympathetic voice.

"Tea, thanks."

"Good, we don't have any coffee."

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Ziad alone to look at the sitting room. There were two pictures set on the mantelpiece, one of Mr. and Mrs. Patil at their wedding, and another of Parvati and Padma, who looked like nervous young about-to-be-First-Years. Neither of the pictures were moving, like Ziad would expect in a magical household.

"Dad, are you making t-"

Parvati stood half-way down the stairs, wearing what could only be described as a shocked expression, bed-hair, and not a whole lot else.

"Uh..."

Ziad looked immediately at the floor.

"Hey, Parvati."

"Hi Ziad. I'm going to go... Uh.. Change. Yeah."

"Great!" said Ziad in a forcefully cheerful voice.

He heard the thump of feet sprinting up the stairs.

Mr. Patil came into the sitting room again with a tray of tea and some biscuits, and wore a somewhat smug expression.

He handed Ziad a small mug of tea, that smelled like the tea English people drank, and that Ziad had developed quite a taste for at Hogwarts. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Ziad took a sip. Exactly like at Hogwarts.

Mrs. Patil entered the sitting room. "Oh, hello Ziad." she said, as if it was completely normal.

"Helloo..." said Ziad, starting to get a little confused.

They sat in silence as Mrs. Patil read a magazine.

Parvati came downstairs again, this time fully clothed, followed by Padma.

"Hi Ziad," said Padma.

"Hello."

Mr. Patil re-entered the sitting room and glanced at Mrs. Patil.

"So here's the part where I ask you why you're here. Why are you here?" he said calmly, arms crossed as he leaned against the mantelpiece.

"Well, when I got to where I remembered my Uncle lived, I found out he's dead. So, as I had no other options, I made my way here in order to ask for advice or help, or both. My end goal is to go to Jerusalem and prevent my mother from stealing all of my sister's money and property, although I may be too late." Ziad presented this story in a matter-of-fact tone that somewhat surprised the Patils.

Parvati leaned forward, "I'm sorry your Uncle is dead."

Ziad chuckled, "I never knew him, and from what I heard of him from my sister and mother, he was a real bastard. I don't really care."

Mrs. Patil looked mildly shocked, "You shouldn't say that about somebody, even if they were horrible."

"Granted, but my point stands. I need to get to Israel, or at least the general vicinity, some time soon."

Mr. Patil sighed and walked into the kitchen and returned with a bundle of newspapers.

_**Israeli Defense Forces Occupy South Lebanon**_

_**Violence Escalates in Ongoing Conflict**_

–

_**12 Israeli Commandos Killed by IED**_

–

_**Muslim Leaders Condemn Israeli Aggression**_

–

_**Hezbollah Continues Launching Rockets at Israel**_

–

_**At Least 300,000 Flee South Lebanon**_

The headlines and articles continued. Images of burning buildings, rubble-strewn streets, soldiers, and Hezbollah and SLA militia festooned the newspapers.

"The point of this," Mr. Patil waved at the newspapers, "is to give you the idea that it won't be very easy."

Ziad continued flipping through the newspapers and looked closely at each and every image on the off-chance he saw somebody he knew.

"Can you make a portkey to go there?" asked Ziad.

"Were it so easy, yes. The problem is that doing so is illegal. In addition, there's no way to know if the area you are transporting to is clear of obstructions. I've never been to Jerusalem, and neither has my wife or any of my children."

Ziad looked up, "I've spent a little time in Jerusalem, when I visited my sister and her husband. I could go to her- his house- he's with the government in some fashion, so he's likely to be very busy during the day, which would leave the house empty."

Mr. Patil looked thoughtful. "An interesting proposition. That still leaves the creation of the portkey itself, as well as your preparation for such a journey. After all, you have no money. Do you even know if your mother is still in Jerusalem?"

"Most likely," said Ziad thoughtfully, "I don't think my sister's husband would let my mother get away with whatever it is she's trying to do without a long fight."

Mr. Patil creased his eyebrows in thought.

"Of course, I'll be happy to help you with this endeavor."

"Really? Thank you-"

"But I will not let you go alone." Mr. Patil gave Ziad a contemplative gaze.

"What are you proposing?" Ziad asked warily.

Mr. Patil looked around at his family, "Well, we've been talking about going someplace interesting for the summer holiday, and I hear Israel is beautiful this time of year. I certainly doubt it will be dull."

"If by beautiful you mean bloody hot, and by 'not dull' you mean sunny with a chance of suicide bombs."

"Change of pace, and all that."

Ziad remembered that there were biscuits on the tea tray and ate one.

And another one. And then the rest of them.

"You seem a bit peckish." said Padma.

"Your powers of deduction are truly Sherlockian."

* * *

After a large breakfast, Mrs. Patil and the twins went off to Diagon Alley to pick up a few things before their journey. Ziad and Mr. Patil got some time to know each other and plan.

Mr. Patil got right to the point.

"So, Ziad, what are your plans regarding Parvati?"

"Wait... What does this have to do with either a fun vacation to Israel or preventing my mother from doing bad stuff?"

"Nothing, frankly. But I'd note that of all the places you could have gone, such as the Ministry of Magic, you instead chose to risk traveling out here. Not what I would call the actions of a logical man, but instead one driven by other factors."

"After the recent events at the Ministry, I don't trust them. As for other options, I don't see any. Yours is the only house of magical ownership of which I know the location. In addition, I will admit to having a certain attraction to Parvati perhaps beyond friendship, but it is something I can easily ignore if necessary. I may be sixteen but I am an exceedingly rational and intelligent sixteen-year-old."

Mr. Patil looked pleased at his response. "Good. You should keep it that way, at least until you're back at Hogwarts."

"Of course."

After that, they got back to planning. Which didn't last long, as they didn't have access to maps or travel guides, as the Patils hadn't planned on traveling to Jerusalem until an hour ago.

"I suppose we'll have to wing it," concluded Mr. Patil as he put down the only book on the area he had, _Exodus _by Leon Uris, which frankly wasn't going to be any help.

The twins and Mrs. Patil returned, and by then the sun was starting to set, and they went into town to get dinner at a restaurant.

Over a salad (Ziad asked if they served Halal meat, the waiter had asked him if what that was), Parvati, Padma, and Ziad discussed their previous year at Hogwarts, leaving out most of the reckless endangerment and reck-_full _endangerment. Ziad ate with his right hand as his left still had the faint scar of a rather vulgar nature on it. Mr. and Mrs. Patil were dutifully amazed at the incompetence and stupidity of Umbridge, despite having heard all about it in both the _Daily Prophet _and in letters home. Ziad ended up spending about half-an-hour giving his full life story up to his admittance to Hogwarts.

They finished their meal, payed the bill, and returned home.

Mr. Patil clapped his hands, "Well, as we're leaving early tomorrow morning, I suggest we go to bed. Ziad, you can sleep on the couch."

Ziad looked at the couch. It looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than the dirt he had made-do with last night.

"Excellent."

After making the couch up with sheets, Ziad took a long hot shower, brushed his teeth, and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

_"Hello, Ziad." _

_Ziad turned his head. Behind him stood Parvati, wearing what passed for pajamas. She looked radiantly beautiful, as the hot Israeli sun baked them. _

_"Hey Mariam." Parvati morphed into his sister. Corporal David Ben-Ami, Golani Brigade, IDF, walked up behind her and took her hand._

_"We're going to Qana today, Ziad. Will you come with us?"_

_David Ben-Ami was missing most of his left side. Blood dripped to the ground. Mariam's hand was smeared with his blood. She was oblivious._

_"David..." said Ziad._

_Mariam and David skipped off down the street, his rifle rattling against his ammunition packs. They skipped right past a truck with a sweating and white-faced driver. _

_A squad of Israeli soldiers, David among them, his rifle no longer slung carelessly on his back but instead raised and loaded, were berating the driver. When he refused to answer, the Captain brought up his rifle._

_The truck disintegrated in a ball of fire and metal. The soldiers were shredded, and the storefront the truck was parked in front collapsed in a heap of rubble._

_When the dust cleared, Ziad saw Mariam and Parvati engaged in conversation as they cared for orphaned children. As a squad of Israeli medics arrived at the scene of the truck bombing, Ziad heard the rumble of heavy artillery._

_"Run! Get away from here!" he shouted._

_Mariam turned and smiled at Ziad._

_Her face became a rictus of cruel mirth._

_Bellatrix Lestrange was engulfed in a blaze of artillery fire as the orphans were blown apart. Lestrange remained unscathed as she raised her wand._

_"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

_A flash of green light-_

Ziad awoke in cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. He stumbled into the kitchen and poured a glass of water and gulped it down. He gasped and steadied himself against the sink. He needed fresh air.

He crept outside into the cool night air. He checked his watch. It was only about midnight. Ziad walked into a copse of trees and sat down, his back against the trunk of a large tree. He stared into the night, and tried to get his thoughts in order.

Ziad heard the distant roar of a motorcycle, which calmed him somewhat.

"Brain..." Ziad muttered to himself, "please don't go all PTSD victim on me. I need to keep my wits about me. Please don't screw that up."

His brain didn't answer. He wasn't _that _messed up, not yet at least.

He stood up, brushed leaves and loam off himself, and returned to the house. He lay back down and attempted to go back to sleep. Eventually a fitful sleep overcame him, but to his relief (later on, of course), no more nightmares troubled him that night. OK, it was morning by that point.

* * *

Author's Note:

It's gotten too serious lately. I'll try to fix that in later installments, but this week I'm truly swamped with work, so when I do write some of my own stress tends to manifest itself in my words. My apologies. Hopefully I'll have a lot of time this weekend to write a few nice _long _chapters.

Drop a review if you like it, hate it, or are ambivalent. Anything helps me improve later chapters.

Also +10 points to anyone who correctly knows what the title of this chapter is referencing.


	12. Harsh Generation

Chapter 12

Ziad was awoken by the thump of feet on the stairs. He rolled over, and saw Mr. Patil coming downstairs balancing a bag and a mug of tea.

"Good, you're awake." he said.

"Only just." grumbled Ziad. He yawned and rolled off the couch.

"You'd better get a shower done before Parvati and Padma get up- they can spend all day in there."

"Good plan."

Freshly showered and dressed, Ziad returned downstairs and sipped at a mug of tea as the rest of the house awoke around him. He looked at the_ Daily Prophet _on the counter. Pictures of Death Eaters and warnings about the dangers filled the front page. He looked at the muggle newspaper beside the _Prophet. _Images of devastation ruled the front page.

_**Bomb Detonates in Manchester City Centre- IRA Suspected**_

_**Hundreds Injured**_

"The world is a violent place this summer." said Mr. Patil ruefully. "Admittedly, the explosion in Manchester is likely to be the work of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, not Irish separatists."

"Indeed," said Ziad in a suitably wise and enigmatic tone.

* * *

Eventually, the family and Ziad gathered around a dish-drying rack.

"It's a dish-drying rack." said Ziad.

"It is _now. _It will grow up to be so much more." said Parvati.

"Uh huh."

Mr. Patil turned to Ziad. "Here's the bit where you come in. Think of where it is you want us to go, and then jab the dish-drying rack with your wand and say _portus. _Got it?"

"Pretty simple."

Ziad turned to the dish-drying rack. He thought of his sister's house in Jerusalem. _"Portus."_

There was a faint blue light. Then nothing.

"It's still a dish-drying rack."

"Ah, but it's a dish-drying rack with _teleportation _abilities!" said Parvati.

"The resale value is incredible."

* * *

The Nigerian woman in apartment 814 was sitting peacefully in her kitchen, admiring her handy-work. The broken window was patched up neatly with a piece of cardboard and about three feet of tape.

"We can get a handyman in here to put in new glass over the weekend." she said to her husband.

"Dear..." he said.

"And then we can finally see about getting some nice potted plants."

"I see another one."

"It's looking like we can have a nice- what?"

Another owl smashed through the cardboard, deposited a letter on her head, and flew back out the window.

"What the hell."

"Agreed," said her husband.

* * *

Ziad and the Parvati family touched the dish-drying rack with teleportation abilities.

There was a jerk behind his navel, and Ziad was swept off into the nether, and then...

He and the family was deposited in the guest-room of his sister's house.

Ziad stood up and walked to the window. He pushed aside the curtains. The bright Israeli sun blazed through.

"Welcome to the Holy Land," he said.

Ziad opened the door and crept out into the hallway. He then crept downstairs, attempting to make as little noise as possible.

"Excuse me, but what the _hell _are you doing here?"

Ziad froze. He looked around. Sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee sat his sister's husband, Shlomi Bar-Dayan, a tall dark-haired man with glasses.

"Uh, hello, Shlomi."

"How did you get upstairs without me seeing you? Have you been _squatting _here? You think I don't have enough to deal with, what with Mariam's death?" His voice was slowly increasing both in pitch and in volume.

"Please, Shlomi. Cool it with the Hebrew? You know I barely know a word. Or switch to Arabic or English."

"Sorry, it's the stress. I suppose I should calm down." He said in English. Shlomi slumped back into his chair.  
"I suppose she was your sister."

He sat for a while before glancing up and saying, "Your mother was here last week. Asking about Mariam's will, and after all of her and my money."

"I'm not surprised," said Ziad.

"She started out all nice and polite, but after an hour I couldn't stand any more of her crap. Then she started calling me all manner of mean things, from _bastard _to the tired old _infidel _and then a few Arabic words I haven't heard yet. I kicked her out, but I'm sure she's around somewhere."

Ziad nodded, "Sounds like her."

At this moment, Parvati came down the stairs, "Is everything all clear- oh, hello."

Shlomi sat there for a bit. He blinked. "How did _two _people sneak into my house?"

"Um..."

Padma and Mr. and Mrs. Patil came downstairs, lugging the luggage (as one tends to do with luggage, as it is within the luggage's very nature to be lugged). "Oh hello, you must be Ziad's sister's husband."

"..." said Shlomi.

"Give him a minute," said Ziad.

Sixty seconds ticked by.

"WHAT THE HE-"

_"Quietus," _whispered Mr. Patil with a flick of his wand.

"- ll? Wait... What did you do to me?" Shlomi frantically jumped out of his chair, spilling his coffee all over the table.

"Ah. I forgot about that little snag." said Mr. Patil.

"Indeed." said Ziad.

Ziad sighed and began talking, with a little help from the Patils...

* * *

"Magic, huh? Sounds pretty fantastical." muttered Shlomi.

"Oh, really?"

"Come on, appreciate the word-play," said Shlomi.

"That was _awful, _even by your sad standards. It wasn't even word-play." said Ziad.

"Fine."

They sat there in silence, Shlomi contemplated the complete change in his perceptions of the world.

"So there's really-"

"Yup."

"And-"

"Mhm."

"What about-"

"Uh huh."

"And you can-"

"Sure can."

"You haven't let me say anything yet!"

"Doesn't matter, it can and probably has been done."

"Wow."

"You should have seen my face when I found out!" said Ziad.

"What was your face?"

"I dunno, there wasn't a mirror."

"Of course."

Shlomi finished his fifth cup of coffee that morning. He poured another. "So, now that you're here, I suppose you'll want someplace to stay?"

"Get out of my brain!"

"Stop being a smartass."

"Fine. Yes, you're correct. If you can recommend a hotel, or if you're willing to let us bunk here for a bit?" said Ziad.

Shlomi leaned back and sighed. "I suppose you can stay here, if you want. It's been too empty and quiet since... Since she died."

There wasn't anything much to say after that, especially considering Shlomi's faraway gaze at the wall opposite.

Mr. Patil cleared his throat and said, "We appreciate the offer, Mr. Bar-Dayan, but we'd hate to impose on you, as strangers. I think we'd-" he gestured at the Patils, "-rather check into a hotel."

"Fine, fine," said Shlomi distractedly, "I'll call a taxi."

"Thank you," said Mr. Patil gravely.

"Ziad, you want to stay here?" asked Shlomi.

"Definitely."

"Cool."

* * *

After the Patils had left for their hotel, Ziad returned to the kitchen.

"Shlomi, I hate to ask this favor of you, but I need to know if I can contact Robert McCormack, UNIFIL team leader with the Irish Defense Forces."

"And you think I can help you with this because-?"

"I know who you work for."

"Ah." Shlomi sat down, and poured another cup of coffee.

"You need to lay off on the coffee, man. You'll be shooting through the roof soon."

"Free country, mate." said Shlomi.

"Don't change the subject-"

"Hey, it was you who mentioned my overuse of coffee-"

"Anyway, you work for the Shin Bet, or something."

Shlomi put down his coffee, clearly a difficult task. "And you know this- how?"

"Mariam told me. I'm her favorite little brother, remember? She kept nothing from me."

Shlomi nodded, as if Ziad were telling him the sky was blue or giraffes have long necks and spots. "I see."

"Can you help me?"

"I'll try."

Ziad sighed in relief, "Thank you."

Shlomi glanced at his watch and cursed, "I need to get to work. I'll probably be back around five or six PM, and we can do dinner. OK?"

"Sounds good."

"Gotta rush. See you!"

Ziad watched Shlomi run out of the house. Then he went upstairs and fetched his book and performed his favorite activity out in the garden, which had been somewhat neglected lately. He was interrupted by the voice of a girl, probably about his age, talking to him in Hebrew across the garden fence so quickly he couldn't catch any words, as she gestured extensively.

"I'm sorry, but I do not understand Hebrew." said Ziad, repeating the only Hebrew phrase he knew well. The girl looked confused for a second before deflating somewhat and saying, "English?"

"Completely and utterly fluent."

"Damn. I am not too good at English."

"You're already better at English than I am at Hebrew. Were you asking me something?"

The girl frowned, "I am asking who you are. I have not seen you before. How do you know Shlomi?"

"Well, his wife... She... She was my sister."

"Oh. I am sorry for you."

"No need, I've felt sorry for myself enough to last a lifetime. I'm Ziad Jarrah."

"I am Aya Koren. You are Israeli?"

"Lebanese. Born in Beirut, moved to England, and am now back in Israel for the summer."

"Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Once, two years ago." Ziad answered. "I don't remember much, to be honest."

Aya brightened up a bit. "Have you toured the Old City before?"

"Nope."

Aya sighed in pleasure and got a faraway look in her eyes, the kind only someone who appreciates old buildings can have. "It is beautiful." She was one of nature's born architectural historians.

Ziad placed a bookmark in his book (where else would you put it?) and said, "Perhaps you can show me around sometime."

A couple who looked like Aya's parents appeared from the back of their house, they spoke to Aya in machine-gun Hebrew.

Ziad caught the words "the" and "talk" among them. He didn't catch the gist of the conversation. Aya waved goodbye and ran inside. Ziad leaned back and re-opened his book.

_The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again..._

"Damn you Robert Jordan and your _Wheel of Time _series!" whispered Ziad as he continued reading, "I just _know _there are at least a dozen more books and I just don't have that kind of time!"

"Who are you talking to?" Aya had reappeared at the garden fence.

"Nobody. Myself."

"Are you nobody?" she said, genuinely confused.

"I won't be engaging in witty repartee with you, will I?"

"What?"

"Damn."

She stood there, looking confused at how she had failed, and confused at what she had failed.

"Don't worry. Your English will hopefully improve enough so that you can banter with the best of them."

"I hope so."

Ziad returned to his book.

"Do you want to tour the old city now?" asked Aya.

Ziad looked at his book... And at Aya's hopeful expression.

Book... Aya...

Aya... Book...

Damn. This was a tough one.

"I suppose my book will be here later." muttered Ziad. "Yeah, lets go."

"Great!" Aya's excitability showed through quite clearly.

They made their way to a bus stop, and climbed aboard. Ziad and Aya sat next to each other.

"How old are you?" asked Ziad.

"Seventeen."

"Alright." said Ziad.

"And you?"

"Sixteen. I turn seventeen next week."

"Ah, you must have a party."

The bus winded its way down the streets of Jerusalem.

A man got on board the now-crowded bus. He wore a heavy jacket and was sweating profusely. Ziad nudged Aya and nodded at the man, who's lips were moving silently.

"I think we should get off at the next stop," he whispered, "That man is incredibly suspicious."

A number of the other passengers clearly thought the same, as a space cleared around the man. Nervous muttering replaced the friendly talking. The bus pulled up to the next stop. As the doors opened, the man pulled his hand out of his pocket.

"Nobody move!" he yelled.

"God damn." muttered Ziad.

The other passengers froze.

"This is for the illegal and inhuman occupation of South Lebanon!"

Ziad's brain froze. Then it restarted due to sheer necessity. He grabbed Aya and forced her to the floor and lay on top of her, shielding her.

_"Allahu Akbar!" _the man screamed frantically and pressed a button.

Fire and pain.

* * *

Author's Note:

Yesterday I failed to upload because I was working from 6 AM to 1 AM without pause. It was exhausting.

Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have the time, I would greatly appreciate it.


	13. Not For Want of Trying

Chapter 13

Ziad didn't know much of anything for a long time after. The world interchanged between black, orange, and red. The only feelings were vague sensations of pain somewhere down below his waist.

Occasionally he heard indistinct rumbling somewhere in front of him. Not very often. His was a world of troubled deep sleep.

Ziad slept.

* * *

And then... Sensation began creeping back into the world. Thoughts became more than mere subconscious flickerings, he could differentiate sounds, and the pain came through the veil of unconsciousness more than ever before.

Very gradually, Ziad began regaining consciousness. Finally, he realized with at least a little conviction that he was indeed fully aware. He opened his eyes.

Ziad's first words were, "Ouch."

And here the interesting thought experiment is presented- If an injured young man says "ouch" in an empty room, did he make a sound?

Yes, obviously. Ziad heard it. That monosyllabic word was music to his ears. Very brief music, but it might as well have been Mozart. He decided to re-write Beethoven's 9th.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Ziad regretted them. It probably would have been prudent, he thought, to actually realize where he was before shouting out some random crap. He glanced around and breathed a sigh of relief.

He was in a hospital room, as opposed to the obviously "kidnapped and held hostage" living situation he had feared.

"Well," explained Ziad to the empty room, "I suppose that's one bright side to all of this."

"That's quite true," responded the room, "It would have been quite unfortunate if you had, for example, been taken hostage by a brutal terrorist group after that bombing on the bus."

"Did the room just reply?"

"Yes, I did. This is a free country, I can say what I want!"

"You're not sentient, Room, you can't talk!"

"Oh really? Why did you just capitalize that 'R' in 'Room', eh?"

"You're just a hallucination likely brought on by painkillers!"

"Oh, damn. It's times like these that make existential crises so frustrating."

"Oh, shut up, Room. I don't need your crap right now."

The Room ceased to exist. It was immediately replaced by a perfectly inanimate room, that failed to respond to Ziad's queries.

"Good. Rooms shouldn't speak back," said Ziad to the world.

The room didn't respond.

The door to the hospital room opened. A nurse walked in, busy with a clipboard. She stopped when she noticed Ziad was awake.

"Oh, you're awake!" she exclaimed, voice heavy with a French accent.

"Obviously," said Ziad.

"They did say you were a- what was the word?- ah yes, a smartass."

"Hey!" said Ziad indignantly, "Who's they?"

"Monsieur Bar-Dayan and Ms. Aya Koren. They were here yesterday."

The nurse performed the usual nursing duties, as Ziad sat awkwardly.

"So, what's the extent of my injuries?"

The nurse stepped back and looked him over, sighed, and said, "When they brought you in the injuries were rather extensive, due to your apparent proximity to the blast. Let's see..." she flipped through several sheets of paper on her clipboard. "Initial treatments were for partial burns across your back and legs, traumatic amputation of the left foot, ballistic penetration of multiple fragments of metal, plastic, and bone, a collapsed lung, TM rupture and middle ear damage, abdominal hemorrhaging, and concussion, as well as the standard multiple lacerations."

Ziad sat there for a while.

"Traumatic amputation... of the left foot."

"Yup."

Ziad wiggled his left foot.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

The nurse stared at Ziad's left foot. Then she flipped frantically through her papers.

"Whoops, nope. Everything _except _traumatic amputation of your left foot."

Ziad sighed in relief.

"Except," continued the nurse, "it was pretty close, by all accounts. You lost two toes, as well. They saved the rest, but only just. I'd avoid using that foot as much as possible after you get out, until it heals more. You probably won't be running any marathons."

"Great." said Ziad, stunned, "Two toes... That will be weird."

"Most likely," responded the nurse, "another reason you'll be here a while. Rehabilitation and all that."

"Sounds like my idea of a fun summer holiday," sighed Ziad as he slumped back into the pillow.

The nurse laughed, "It's how I spend all my holidays."

The nurse continued with her nursely duties.

"If you don't mind, what day is today?" asked Ziad, after a few minutes.

"Thursday."

"So I've been out for, what, a few days?" asked Ziad.

"Thursday- July 8th."

"Ah." Ziad slumped back into the bed. "Nearly a month?"

"That's correct."

"And I don't suppose I'll be getting out anytime soon, will I?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it. You've suffered pretty severe injuries, if you haven't noticed."

"Crap."

"I couldn't sum it up any better myself." The nurse left.

Ziad lay back, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, his body didn't want to go back to sleep after a mere five minutes in the real world.

The next few hours aren't really interesting enough to recount, unless reading detailed accounts of lying still and occasionally forcing down hospital food (which is awful the world over) have suddenly become popular.

* * *

Life became a little more interesting when Shlomi came to visit him.

As opposed to the usual situation, in which the patient is eating, talking to a doctor, sleeping peacefully, or doing some form of physical therapy when the friends and family of the bereaved arrive, Shlomi arrived when Ziad was using the necessaries. He quickly ducked back out of the room.

When Ziad had finished, Shlomi re-entered.

"Hello, Ziad."

"Hey, Shlomi. Why'd you tell that French nurse I'm a smartass?"

Shlomi chuckled, "I suppose you're alright if you can still talk like that."

"The bomb didn't remove my head, if that's what you're saying."

"A shame."

There was a brief silence between them.

"Is Aya OK?" said Ziad.

"Yeah, your stupid bravery prevented any significant damage to anything but her pride."

Ziad breathed another sigh of relief. "That's good. That's really good."

Shlomi's face darkened, "But four people died on that bus, and everyone else had at least minor injuries."

Ziad frowned, "Damn... Any particular group claiming responsibility?"

"No, but certain _friends _of mine say it was almost certainly Hamas, or someone affiliated with them."

The French nurse opened the door, and entered the room balancing a tray.

"Ah, bonjour Monsieur Shlomi, good to see you here."

Shlomi quickly stood up straight and greeted the nurse in fluent French, "Bonjour mademoiselle DeBlanc, how are you this fine morning?"

Nurse DeBlanc set the tray down and answered, "Fine, fine. And you?"

"Fine myself, thanks."

Ziad looked at the two of them, and then began speaking to both of them in passable Pashto. "Seriously guys? Can we keep it to maybe one language, at most two in here? You all speak English quite well."

Shlomi and Nurse DeBlanc stared at him.

"You speak Pashto?" Shlomi said softly, in Arabic. Then, to himself, muttered, "We could use another Pashto speaker at work."

"I taught myself while I was at school in England." answered Ziad in English.

Nurse DeBlanc sighed and said, in English, "I am _so _lost.

Ziad and Shlomi turned to her and said, in unison, "Nothing."

"Uh huh, sure."

The nurse left, leaving Shlomi and Ziad to discuss. Shlomi sat down and made himself comfortable.

"What happened with the Patils, do you know?" asked Ziad.

"They returned to England about a week ago. They were extremely worried about you, obviously, and at least one of them visited you every day until they had to leave. Apparently the father had some work-related thing he had to take care of."

"I suppose me getting blown up kind of ruined their vacation, didn't it?"

"Yeah, pretty much." said Shlomi.

"That does tend to ruin things, I guess."

"Very much so."

Shlomi leaned forward. "Your mother called a week after the victim list of the bus bombing showed up. She asked why I hadn't told her you were in town. I told her that I didn't know. I lied."

"Thank you," said Ziad. He thought for a second before continuing, "I suppose that confirms she's still here."

"That's what I was thinking." Shlomi walked to the door, cracked it open, and checked the hallway. It was empty. Then he closed and locked the door. He returned to his seat, but was clearly somewhat tense.

"I found Robert McCormack," he said softly, "He's still in Lebanon, but his tour ends next week. I've arranged a meeting, but we'll need to get you out of the hospital first."

He leaned close to Ziad's ear, "But that will be difficult, considering the amount of security here. They have all the victims of the bombing in this hospital under intense security- lots of police and some of my colleagues are in and around the hospital. Because of the dangers involved in busting you out of here, I need to know why it is so important you speak to McCormack face-to-face."

Ziad answered quietly, "Because he sent another letter later on. This one was handwritten. I didn't tell anyone about it and, as per his instructions, I burned it immediately after reading it. It said to meet him as soon as possible."

Shlomi frowned, "Why you?"

"I don't know. The weird thing is that this second letter was delivered directly by owl. It said in the letter to feed the owl, which was rather irate and clearly hungry. Which means he's either a wizard or involved in the wizarding world. In addition, he may not trust someone who works for the Israeli government, like you."

Shlomi sighed and leaned back in his chair, "I suppose that's a possibility."

He looked at his watch and stood up, "I need to be going. I'll work on a plan to get you out of here, probably the day after tomorrow."

He shook Ziad's hand, and opened the door, "Oh, and Aya Koren will probably visit later today. Her parents too. You did save her life, after all. Or at least prevent her from being as injured as you."

Shlomi waved goodbye and left Ziad alone in his hospital room. Ziad ate his food.

* * *

Aya did visit later that day, but her parents did not come.

"They do not like you," Aya said, "They think you are a bad influence."

"Most people seem to think that." said Ziad.

"If it helps, I do not think jumping on somebody to save them from an explosion is a bad influence."

"That does help a little, thanks. Also, your English has improved significantly. How is that?"

Aya smiled, "I've invited Shlomi over for dinner a lot. I convinced my parents that we should get to know our neighbors better, starting with him. Now I take care of his garden, too. I asked Shlomi to only talk to me in English, so I could learn."

"It's definitely working."

Aya looked absurdly pleased with herself, but then got more serious. "How are you feeling?"

"Like crap, but it could be a lot worse."

Aya nodded, and then reached into her bag and brought out a couple of books. "I brought the books you were reading, so you won't be as bored."

"Great, thanks!"

They talked briefly before mutually realizing that they didn't have much to talk about, as they had only known each other a few hours, without beginning a whole new line of conversation, which would take up more time than they had.

Aya left.

Ziad read.

* * *

Two days later, Shlomi came for a brief visit. He was carrying a duffel bag. Inside was an olive-drab military uniform with no insignia.

"We go tonight. When the nurse leaves you for the night, change into this uniform and wait for me."

He tucked the uniform under the cushions of his seat.

"See you tonight."

He left.

Ziad read, but found it hard to concentrate.

* * *

Author's Note:

Don't worry, Ziad will be back at Hogwarts soon enough, but first he has to clear up some loose ends.

Plus, if anyone correctly catches the movie reference, good on you.


	14. Spinning For The Cause

Chapter 14

Ziad's nerves were pretty taught by the time the nurse left for the last time. His hands were shaking again, but this time he couldn't calm them down.

The nurse bid him goodnight, turned the lights off, and left.

Ziad counted to sixty three times, then yanked the IV out of his arm ("Ow!") and climbing out of bed. He collapsed immediately.

He pulled himself up onto his shaking legs. He steadied himself against the bed, and pulled his hospital gown up over his head, and stuffed it under the pillow. He then stumbled over to the chair, and pulled the army uniform out and clumsily assembled it over himself. His shaking fingers had trouble with the buttons.

He sat heavily down after getting the trousers and socks on, and then slipped the slightly-too-big boots over his feet and laced them up.

Ziad stood up again and appraised himself on the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

"Father would be too busy killing me to be angry..." he muttered.

He stared in the mirror. An Israeli soldier with Ziad's eyes stared back.

* * *

An hour later, the door opened. Shlomi appeared. He was wearing an identical uniform to Ziad's.

"Come on." he whispered, "Act drunk."

"How?"

"Stumble around a bunch, slur your words if you talk, and generally pretend you're really, really stupid and clumsy."

Ziad's legs collapsed from under him, "Shit!"

"That's great acting! Spot on!"

"I'm not acting, asshole! I've been in bed for a month, and on painkillers for most of that time!"

Shlomi pulled Ziad back to his feet and dusted off his olive-green uniform. "Keep it up."

"That will be easy," Ziad mumbled.

Ziad stumbled out of the room, and into the hallway. Shlomi put a steadying arm around Ziad's shoulders as they limped down the hall.

They reached an elevator. Shlomi pushed the down button. They waited.

Ziad was sweating quite a bit.

Shlomi was too.

The elevator door opened. Inside stood two older men, both wearing military uniforms with various metal and cloth bits that indicated high rank. They stepped aside to allow Shlomi and Ziad in. The shorter of the two eyed Ziad's uniform with what approached fear, or intimidation.

The other sneered at Ziad and said something in Hebrew.

Shlomi answered.

The door opened, the two officers left.

"What the hell was all that about?" asked Ziad.

"The taller one said, 'aren't you a little young to be in Sayeret Matkal?'"

"What's that?" asked Shlomi.

"Sayeret Matkal is one of Israel's hardcore special operations units. They work directly with Aman- Military Intelligence directorate. They don't wear unit insignia," answered Shlomi.

"So what'd you say?"

"I said that you were young- the youngest in battalion history, and were accepted last night and got just a little too excited in celebration."

"So now I'm a drunk Israeli special forces soldier? That's pretty much every single abomination wrapped up in one delicious meal. Next you'll tell me I'll be having premarital sex on a motorcycle with President Clinton in France before marrying a Shia."

"That's the next step in my plan."

"I'm all for it."

The elevator door opened again, and Shlomi and Ziad stumbled out into the hospital lobby. Nurses, doctors, and patients walked past them as if they didn't exist. Two soldiers standing by the exit just nodded at them and stared apprehensively at the lack of unit insignia on their uniforms.

Shlomi and Ziad walked out of the doors and into the hot night air.

"So what's next, oh master planner?"

"Actually, that's all the plan I have so far," said Shlomi.

"You're joking, right?"

Shlomi looked Ziad dead in the eye. "I never joke."

"Your wit is so sharp it's cutting my ability to laugh."

"We should probably actually think seriously about this," said Shlomi.

Ziad limped over to a knee-high stone wall and sat down.

"We need to get to where McCormack is. Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah, he's at a UN base on the border. We can get there."

"How?"

"Everyone thinks we're Sayeret Matkal guys on leave. We can get there."

Ziad sighed, "I don't speak Hebrew, and you're an intelligence worker. How are we going to pull this off?"

Shlomi smiled grimly, "Apparently Mariam didn't tell you everything. When I was in the Army, I worked with Sayeret Matkal a couple of times. I flew helicopters for them, and several other special forces units. I know how they work. Plus, I played Romeo in my school's rendition of _Romeo and Juliet, _so I can act."

"You're an odd person, Shlomi."

"I know."

They found a taxi, and went back to Shlomi's house. Ziad immediately went to the kitchen and gulped down a glass of water.

"If you want to get there, we should leave right now," said Shlomi.

"Don't you have work, or something?" asked Ziad.

"I called in sick when you told me about the second letter. This is important," responded Shlomi forcefully.

"Oh. Thanks." Ziad was genuinely moved- he didn't think Shlomi cared enough, but was quite pleasantly surprised at this upsetting of his world view.

"You'll need the help, anyway. I can't leave a relative floundering about in my country, now can I?"

"That would be pretty inconsiderate," said Ziad.

"Exactly."

As Ziad sat at the kitchen table eating a sandwich, Shlomi packed a small duffel bag with water bottles, money, food, two handguns, and several boxes of ammunition. He then walked upstairs and returned with two rifles and a big brown bag bursting with brass bullets.

"Big brown bag bursting with brass bullets... Big brown brag brur... Big brown bra.."

Shlomi stopped and asked, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm trying to say it ten times fast- you know what, it doesn't matter." Ziad nodded towards two rifles and the brig brown brag brursting with brass brullets. "Is that... Is that entirely necessary?" he said uneasily.

"Probably not, but you can't be too safe, can you? Plus it would be more suspicious for Sayeret Matkal soldiers to be running around a war zone without guns, wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps."

Shlomi finished packing, and faced Ziad, arms crossed, face contemplative.

"You can't be 'Ziad Jarrah.' That's too Lebanese. From now on, you're going to be Oshri... Oshri Cohen, I think. And I suppose I'll be... Tomer... Tomer Zitlaui. I'm a lieutenant, you're a sergeant. Sound good?"

Ziad sighed, "I'm already wearing the uniform of the sworn enemy, and I've pretended to be drunk. I suppose I can accept this one last affront to my upbringing. I accept, Lt. Zitlaui."

"Are you ready, Sgt. Cohen? You ready to go back to Lebanon, meet an Irishman, and face grave dangers?"

"No."

Ziad limped upstairs, grabbed his wand and a book, and limped back downstairs.

"Are you ready now?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent. Let's go."

After a moments thought, Shlomi removed the two handguns from the duffel bag, loaded each, and put them in the front seat of his car. The rifles and supplies went into the back seat. Shlomi and Ziad sat down, Shlomi started the car, and the drove off.

They made their way on the highway west towards the Mediterranean, and Tel Aviv, where they turned North- towards Haifa and eventually Lebanon. There was heavy traffic- a mixture of civilian and military vehicles- going both directions, despite the late hour. It was approaching midnight.

Shlomi drove into the next morning, stopping for gas and food once or twice. Ziad mostly dozed off, utterly exhausted by the relatively strenuous activity. Ziad spent the last two hours of the drive asleep, snoring occasionally.

_You spin me right round, baby_

_right round like a record baby_

_Right round round round..._

Ziad awoke. "What the hell is this noise you're subjecting my ears to, Shlomi?"

Shlomi nodded his head to the music, "It's a classic, Ziad. Appreciate it."

"No?"

Shlomi shrugged, "Suit yourself. If it offends your 'upbringing' or some crap like that, know that Uday Hussein really likes this song."

Ziad sat up in his seat, "Uday Hussein? That sick bastard? Sorry, that makes it worse."

Shlomi laughed, "I see his, ah... exploits... have offended even extremists like your father."

"Everything he does offends everybody."

"Ha. Either way, we're approaching our destination. See how there are so many more military vehicles? Yeah. Get ready."

Ziad sighed, "I was born ready." He put his hand into his pocket, and fingered his wand.

Shlomi eased the car towards a cluster of olive-green vehicles and people. They pulled up next to a soldier who looked like he was directing traffic, and rolled down the window. Shlomi and the soldier began a heated discussion, accompanied, of course, by excessive gesturing. Eventually another soldier of higher rank was called over, and Shlomi repeated the process. The higher ranking soldier was shaking his head, and Shlomi was starting to look a bit browbeaten.

Ziad eased his wand out of his pocket, aimed, and whispered, _"Confundo... Confundo..."_

The two soldiers stopped what they were saying, shivered a little, and looked incredibly confused.

The higher ranking soldier said "Um" several times before distractedly waving Shlomi forward.

Shlomi continued down the road, somewhat more confidently.

"So... That's magic, eh? Pretty fancy. Very useful. I could definitely use some of that in my line of work."

Ziad nodded, "You and everyone else. We can't do all your work for you. There aren't enough of us."

The roads they now drove down were occupied entirely by military vehicles. Abandoned civilian vehicles and other detritus littered the side of the road.

"Refugees," said Shlomi, "Thousands of them fled this part of Israel when the Hezbollah rockets started falling. It will be worse across the border."

As if on cue, large signs, barbed wire fences, and an increase in concentration of dark-green vehicles and people marked the border. They drove across.

Ziad was home. Back in Lebanon. Shlomi had been right- the detritus of war and abandonment littered the roads and countryside. Burned out vehicles, spent artillery casings, and barbed wire lay scattered everywhere.

"Welcome home, Ziad."

"Wonderful," said Ziad ruefully, "Doesn't look like your people have left much of it for me to go home to."

"It would seem so."

Eventually, the road was blocked entirely by a collection of concrete barriers and Israeli military vehicles. After a brief discussion, Shlomi left his car with the soldiers.

"They won't mess it up," he assured Ziad, "Or else I'll ruin their careers."

Ziad nodded, "So, what's next?"

"We can catch a ride to the UN base with those guys over there-" he waved towards a group of Israeli soldiers huddling around an armored personnel carrier (olive-green, of course), "-who are headed there now to do some Israeli-UN public relations crap."

"Great."

Ziad and Shlomi pulled their supplies and weapons out of the car, slung them over their backs, and walked over to the vehicle. They climbed into the cramped, pokey interior and found a place to sit down. Three Israeli soldiers followed them. They nodded at Shlomi and Ziad apprehensively.

Ziad attempted to doze off, but was interrupted by Shlomi nudging his elbow, and muttering, "He's asking your name!"

Ziad jerked up, "Uh... Z-... Oshri. Oshri Cohen. _Samal Rishon _Oshri Cohen."

The three Israelis glanced at each other. They replied to Ziad.

Shlomi answered quickly. Shlomi and the soldiers engaged in a discussion. Ziad pretended to doze off again, which was, of course, ridiculous considering the cramped and uncomfortable conditions inside the armored personnel carrier, what with all the metal knobbly things poking everywhere.

After about fifteen minutes driving, the door opened, and everyone unfolded themselves out into the sunny air. They were surrounded by foreign soldiers, all heavily armed and looking doubtfully at them.

One of the foreign soldiers approached, flanked by two armed men wearing blue helmets with the letters 'UN' emblazoned in white across the front.

"Welcome! I am Colonel João Vieira, of the UN mission to Lebanon, with the Portuguese Army. I know who these other soldiers are-" he gestured at the soldiers Ziad and Shlomi had shared the uncomfortable ride with, "-but I do not know who you are or why you are here?"

Shlomi stepped forward, "I am Lieutenant Tomer Zitlaui, of the Sayeret Matkal, and this is my First Sergeant Oshri Cohen. We need to talk to Robert McCormack."

Colonel Vieira nodded, but glanced sceptically at Ziad's youthful face and noticeable limp. "That can be arranged. But first you must leave your weapons with my soldiers. You can collect them when you leave."

Shlomi nodded, "Of course. Thank you."

Ziad and Shlomi were led into a white concrete building, inside of which there were a few foldable metal chairs, a water dispenser, and a black-and-white television playing Israeli TV shows.

"Wait here," said one of the Portuguese soldiers who had brought them to this desolate room, "Major McCormack will be available soon."

* * *

Four hours later, a different Portuguese soldier entered, and refilled the water dispenser, and left.

* * *

Two more hours later, and Shlomi was getting pissed off. Right when he was about to burst a vein, Colonel Vieira entered, "Please, gentlemen, follow me. Major McCormack can meet you now."

"Allahu akbar!" Ziad let loose reflexively. Colonel Vieira stared at him.

"It's only a saying. It bears no correlation to the truthfulness of the story you were told earlier by my colleague Lt. Zitlaui." mumbled Ziad.

"Naturally," said Colonel Vieira, "Come with me."

Shlomi and Ziad followed Vieira to another building in the UN compound, this one a bit nicer in that it had air-conditioning and dividers that divided (of course) the room into various individual offices, each labeled with stuff like **Cpt. Yassin (Malaysia- Army) **or **Cpl. Øgaard****(Norway- Army)**. Eventually they reached a larger, completely closed off office labeled "Maj. McCormack (Ireland- Army)."

Colonel Vieira knocked. A muffled voice said, "Come in."

Shlomi pushed open the door and entered. Ziad followed. Vieira closed the door behind him.

Inside, a small bald man sat behind a desk piled high with papers and notebooks. He glanced up at the visitors and set down his pen.

"Now, what can I help you with, gentlemen?" he said, with a thick Irish brogue.

Ziad sat in the one chair in front of McCormack's desk. He sighed.

"I am Ziad Jarrah. You wrote me twice, once to inform me of my sister's death in April, and again a week later. You used owls."

McCormack leaned back. "Ah. I thought your story sounded suspicious. But who is your friend?"

Shlomi stepped forward, "I am Shlomi Bar-Dayan. I am Ziad's guardian, and I work for Shin Bet."

McCormack laughed, "Of course. I knew Mr. Jarrah would need your help in some form. I suspected Mr. Jarrah would ask you for your help."

Shlomi was puzzled, and expressed his confusion eloquently.

"What?"

"Mr. Bar-Dayan, Mr. Jarrah, I will drop the charade."

McCormack stood up, pulled a wand from his pocket, and cast several charms about the room. "As you can clearly see, I am a wizard. I went to Hogwarts many years ago, and now I for a certain organization that has assigned me to work with the Irish military, who has in turn deployed me here with the UN task force. They do not know I am a wizard, but I will need contacts in Magical Britain and the Israeli government to, well, to put it bluntly, save the world."

Ziad put his face in his hands. Shlomi slumped.

"You see, The Dark Lord Voldemort has risen again, as Ziad knows well enough. The British Ministry is unlikely to do anything to stop Voldemort's rise. As we speak, he is spreading tendrils of doubt, distrust, and fear throughout Britain. His followers scour the world, looking for weapons to increase his power. And, I fear, one of them has found one, here in the Holy Land."

He sat back down again, and leaned forward. "When poor Mariam was killed in Qana, I was already tracking this follower of Voldemort, who was sneaking about Israel and Lebanon, searching. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, when writing you that first letter, Ziad, that you had gone off to Hogwarts. I then wrote you the second letter."

There was a knock on the door. Vieira entered, a look of panic on his face, "Major," he began, "My soldiers have been ambushed by Hezbollah fighters on the Section 7 road!"

McCormack sighed, and stood up. "Call General Øgaard, and get some support out there." He turned to Shlomi and Ziad.

"I'm afraid I'll have to leave now. I'll arrange for you to return with the Israeli soldiers you came in with. Mr. Bar-Dayan- I will contact you later about seeking your assistance with the Israeli government. Mr. Jarrah- I hope you have a safe year at Hogwarts. I will contact you later with more information and questions, as I hear you have met, and are perhaps even friends with, Harry Potter."

McCormack walked to the door and opened it, "Oh, and one last thing. Ziad- do not get on the Patil's bad side. Mr. Patil and I work for the same organization, and let me tell you- he is incredibly intelligent and driven, but he can be ruthless when the mood takes him."

McCormack left Shlomi and Ziad in his office.

Shlomi laughed mirthlessly, "I believe the phrase 'this shit just got real' would be appropriate for this situation, don't you?"

* * *

Author's Note:

Whoo! Longest chapter yet.

Ziad's exciting summer is nearing an end, and he will soon be back at Hogwarts. Don't worry- there will be less politics/military and more hogwarts/magic/actual fanfiction stuff for the rest of the story.

Enjoy, and don't hesitate to write a review- if I don't get feedback, I can't improve it.


	15. Summertime Death

Chapter 15

Shlomi and Ziad left McCormack's office and trudged out of the headquarters building. A harried looking Portuguese sergeant awaited them. The sergeant gestured for them to follow him, and they did. He was carrying a rifle and looking angry, after all.

The sergeant led them back to the heavily fortified gate, where the Israeli armored personnel carrier and soldiers awaited them nervously. The Portuguese sergeant left unceremoniously after returning their handguns and rifles, as well as their ammunition.

Shlomi briefly spoke to the Israeli soldiers, and then climbed in the back of the vehicle. Ziad followed, not exactly looking forward to another bumpy, awkward, and generally uncomfortable ride. The vehicle rumbled to life and they traversed back into no-man's land.

Ziad hated being inside the armored vehicle. He couldn't see or hear anything, just feel it. And even that tiny sense was largely made useless by the constant vibrations of the vehicle's treads. So when the vehicle shook violently, he largely passed it off. That is, until the vehicle crashed to a stop and lurched to the side.

The Israeli soldiers were shouting and moving about as the door slid open. The soldiers rushed out. Shlomi glanced at Ziad, loaded his rifle, and stepped out as well.

Ziad said a quick prayer, fumbled a magazine into his own rifle, yanked the charging handle, and stumbled out of the vehicle, blinking in the sudden brightness.

They were in a small village, with a few bombed out two or three-story buildings, and a tangle of tight alleyways, one-story houses and shops, and rubble. Ziad saw a massive black streak across the side of the vehicle, coinciding with a large dent. One of the treads had also been blown off, and the vehicle was tilting slightly.

Ziad heard a repetitive popping sound.

"Ziad!"

Ziad's rifle was held slack by his side.

"Ziad!"

He glanced around. Shlomi was hissing at him; he and the soldiers were crouched behind a chunk of rubble, tensely scanning the rooftops with their eyes and weapons.

Ziad snapped out of his reverie, and rushed down to join them. The Israelis glanced at him with nervous expressions, then gazed back at the rooftops. Shlomi exchanged a few words with them.

Ziad heard an incredibly loud _cracking _noise followed by a sharp _pop _noise. The soldiers ducked even further behind the rubble, and he followed suit. One of the soldiers was on his radio, shouting at somebody. More gunfire shrieked overhead.

One of the soldiers glanced up over the rubble, ducked back, tapped his friend's shoulder, and they both began shooting at some enemy beyond the rubble.

Ziad was praying silent, his eyes now closed, his mouth moving wordlessly. A few bullet casings rattled off his helmet. He tried to block out the unending sound of gunfire.

He opened his eyes when he felt a insistent tapping on his shoulder. Shlomi shouted at him, "We need to get back to the vehicle and get the radio! Ours isn't working, and we need air support!"

"You want me to go out in that?" Ziad shouted back incredulously.

"No, I need you to just shoot. I need covering fire!"

"Crap!"

"Copy that!"

Shlomi glanced around the corner of the rubble.

"When I run out, get out there and start shooting. I don't care what you shoot at, just suppress them!"

"What if I get shot?"

"You'll probably die."

"Screw you man!"

Shlomi jumped out and sprinted for the vehicle. Ziad cursed and leaned out of cover, and finally saw where his countrymen were shooting at him from.

There was a hulking three-story bank at the end of the street, about thirty meters away. Flashes of light came from the windows.

Ziad pushed his rifle around the corner, put his eyes to the sights, and began shooting aimlessly at the building. Bang. Bang. Bang. Single shots- he didn't have unlimited ammunition.

Ziad glanced after Shlomi. He had disappeared into the vehicle. Ziad looked back at his target and kept shooting, reloading when his rifle clicked empty.

He glanced back at the vehicle. Shlomi was still hidden inside, hopefully calling in air or artillery support. Ziad saw movement across the street, on the other side of the vehicle.

Ziad swung his rifle around, and the movement disappeared. He began turning back towards the building when a man flashed out of the alleyway where Ziad had seen movement, carrying a rifle and sprinting towards the vehicle.

Ziad stopped the movement of his arms towards the building, and changed the direction back towards the vehicle. The man was ten feet away from Shlomi's hiding place.

Ziad peered down the sights, not sure what to do.

Oh yeah. It's a _gun. _You pull the _trigger._

Ziad did so. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four-... ice?

Either way, the gun pounded back into his shoulder again and again, and red blossoms appeared in the air above the running man, who inexplicably fell to the ground, twitching.

Shlomi stumbled out of the vehicle, looked at the fallen man, then at Ziad. Then back to the fallen man. He sprinted back behind the rubble.

"Did you shoot that guy?" he shouted.

"I think so!"

"Damn!"

"Yeah!"

Shlomi crawled over to where the Israeli soldier with the broken radio sat trying to get it to work. They exchanged words, and the Israeli looked decidedly happier. He shouted at the two shooting soldiers, who grinned and ducked down behind the rubble. The gunfire from the building intensified.

"What's happening?" Ziad shouted at Shlomi.

"Artillery mission, danger close! They got a MLRS battery firing some steel rain!"

"Speak English! Or Arabic! Anything but Military!"

"They're shooting really big rockets to go boom on the bad guys!"

"Oh, good!"

Ziad glanced guiltily over to where the man he shot was lying in a pool of blood.

Then he was made a bit happier by the super manly and massive explosions that occurred at that moment.

Shlomi grinned smugly and covered his ears and ducked his head down between his knees as dust and sound washed over him. When it cleared, he lifted his head and said, "And _that's _why we call them _Menatetz_. Smashers."

Ziad stood and looked at the building.

"Where'd the building go?"

"I don't know, but I hope there's enough falafel there," sneered Shlomi.

"Hey man, that's just racist."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting you're Lebanese."

"We're in Lebanon, Shlomi. These are my fellow citizens. I _shot _one. A little sensitivity is perhaps a good thing, in this situation."

Shlomi backed away, hands held up in front of him. "Whoa, just making a joke."

Ziad chuckled, "I know. I don't really care because that explosion was _freaking awesome!"_

The Israeli soldiers were staring at them.

* * *

A heavily armed Israeli tank battalion eventually came and rescued them. The commander of the new Israeli soldiers said he was going to recommend Lt. Tomer Zitlaui for a medal.

Shlomi just smiled.

They finally made it back to Shlomi's car, which was thankfully unharmed.

Shlomi even managed to get free gas off the now-friendly Israeli soldiers they had shared a ride and a firefight with.

When Shlomi eased the car back into Israel and onto a highway teaming with vehicles that weren't olive-green or bristling with weapons, Ziad breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he choked.

"Holy shit, I just killed another person."

Shlomi glanced at him, "Uh, not to burst your badass-bubble but I talked to one of the combat medics and he said your man was only permanently disabled. Apparently you severed his spinal cord and blew off his hand, but he's still alive."

Ziad stared at Shlomi, his mouth hanging open in horror.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

"Good. Because now I feel like absolute shit. Thanks."

Ziad stayed silent for the rest of the ten hour drive back to Shlomi's house, where he stomped into the shower and stayed there for an hour before going to bed, where he fell into a troubled sleep the second his still-damp head touched the pillow.

Shlomi just sighed and made himself a pot of coffee.

* * *

Ziad spent the next week not talking to anyone.

He woke up, ate, read, ate, read, ate, read, and fell asleep.

A week after the firefight, he came downstairs.

"Good morning," mumbled Shlomi into his mug of coffee.

"Morning..."

"Hey, are you speaking again?" Shlomi said, setting down his coffee.

Ziad poured his own mug of coffee and slumped into a chair. He took a sip and winced, "This coffee is terrible."

"It's instant coffee. I got it for free at the store because nobody else was buying it."

Ziad gingerly pushed it away.

"And yes, I am speaking," he said. "I decided that although I may have completely ruined that guy's life, he was trying to kill you, and probably wouldn't have hesitated to kill me. And therefore I was perfectly justified in doing what I did."

Shlomi nodded, suddenly serious. "Good."

Ziad sighed, "Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it, though."

Shlomi chuckled mirthlessly, "If you enjoyed it, you'd be no better than your father."

"Yeah."

Ziad reached out and picked up the coffee and sipped it again.

"Is it really this bad?"

"Yup."

They sipped simultaneously.

"Damn."

Ziad took another sip, a longer one.

"They must be masochists."

"Yeah," said Shlomi, as he took a sip.

"I mean," _sip, _"this is really bad." _Sip._

"I hear ya'," _sip._

_Sip. Sip. Gulpgulp._

* * *

That afternoon, Ziad decided to change things up a bit and read in the garden.

Unfortunately for his still-troubled mind, he had forgotten that Aya Koren took care of Shlomi's garden, and, because this is how things work in stories, happened to be gardening when Ziad went outside.

Ziad attempted to sneak back inside, but was, of course, noticed.

"Hey Ziad!"

Ziad sighed, "Hullo."

Aya stood up and walked over to him. "I have not seen you in over a week!"

"I've been dealing with some issues."

"Don't go all emo on me, asshole."

Ziad stared, "Have you been watching American TV?"

"Yeah."

"Please stop."

They stood there awkwardly.

Ziad hefted his book, "Well, um... I was going to read out here, if you don't mind."

"Oh... Yeah, sure. Um... Don't mind me, I'll just be, you know, _working."_

Ziad sat down and read.

Aya worked.

* * *

Eventually, July became August, and even August began to look old and crumble. Ziad felt the tugs of destiny pulling him back towards Scotland and a return to the madhouse of Hogwarts.

"Hey Shlomi," Ziad said one morning a week before school started, "I have to go back to Britain soon. Like this afternoon, or tomorrow."

Shlomi put down the newspaper he was reading.

"Yeah, I know. Do you want me to come with you?"

"You can do that?"

Shlomi smiled, "You really don't understand how awesome my job is, do you?"

"Apparently not."

And so that afternoon, Shlomi made one phone call to "work," packed a bag, left a note at Aya's house, and stood in front of Ziad.

"What's next?"

Ziad pulled out his wand, "Well, now I make a portkey."

"Cool."

"I don't suppose you have some piece of junk you don't really need?"

Shlomi rummaged through the house for a bit before finding a busted old plate.

"Will this do?"

"Perfect."

Ziad raised his wand, poked the plate, and said, _"Portus!"_

There was a tiny flash of light, and then nothing.

Shlomi glanced at him, "Is that it?"

"Yup."

"Magic is really useful."

"No kidding."

* * *

At apartment 814, an owl sailed through the still-shattered window, and landed at the kitchen table.

It hooted a few times and hopped around a bit.

The owl flew towards the open door, which had a large FOR SALE sign taped haphazardly across it.

The owl relieved itself on the door before dropping the letter and leaving through the kitchen window.

* * *

Ziad touched the plate and beckoned Shlomi to do the same. Shlomi gingerly grazed the plate with his finger, and they were yanked into the nether-

-and deposited in an dirty alley in London.

Shlomi brushed himself off.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Near Diagon Alley."

"And that is...?"

"If I remember correctly, it's where Wizards hide all their good stuff. I was only there for about ten minutes before they whisked me off to Hogwarts, so my memory is a little vague."

"Wonderful."

"Don't judge man, you volunteered for this."

"I did, didn't I?"

"Yup."

Ziad led them into a dingy old pub, with an old wooden sign swinging over the door.

"Leaky Cauldron, eh? That's a crap name for a pub," scoffed Shlomi.

"Yeah, well, don't say that too loudly because everyone in here is _magical."_

"Leak Cauldron, eh? Beautiful name for a pub. Couldn't have thought of a better one."

They reached a brick wall.

"It's a wall," said Shlomi.

"Yeah, but it's _magical."_

"Never had anything against a good wall."

"Mhm."

Ziad tapped the wall a couple of times with his wand. It slid open, revealing the bustling wizarding shopping center beyond.

"They're dressed funny."

_"Magical."_

"Never been a big fan of modern fashions, you know?"

Ziad walked into the first shop he remembered, a book shop.

"Books? Really?" grumbled Shlomi.

"Do I even have to tell yo-"

"Never had anything against books."

Ziad sighed and approached the counter, where a tired witch stood.

"Excuse me, but do you know the books a second year at Hogwarts would need? I... uh... We never got an owl."

"Oh, of course!" responded the witch, before rambling on about something boring and trying to sell them completely unrelated books.

Unfortunately, they didn't have any money.

"I thought that would be a problem," mumbled Ziad.

"So... What do we do now?"

"You have any money?"

"Yeah..."

"We could probably exchange that for wizard cash at the bank."

"What, the big imposing building down the street?"

"Of course."

"Wonderful."

They pushed their way through the crowded street. They got a few odd looks, as neither wore robes, Shlomi looked extremely uncomfortable, and both were wearing clothes that would have been comfortable in Israel, but were extremely ill-suited to the British state-of-being. Rain, that is.

When they reached Gringotts, Shlomi muttered something about the Goblins but kept commendably quiet otherwise, especially when he had to turn over some of his hard-earned money to the Goblin tellers.

The goblin stared at the money.

He called over some more goblins, before turning back to Shlomi.

"Excuse me, sir, but what kind of currency is this?"

Shlomi glanced at Ziad before looking back at the goblin.

"Um... It's a Shekel."

"A what?"

"A Shekel. You know... The currency of Israel."

The goblin turned to his companions and spoke in their language for at least a minute.

"I apologize, sir, but I don't believe this currency is valid. The land often called Israel is but a mere colony of the muggle British government."

Shlomi looked affronted, "It's been independent since 1948!"

The goblin sighed, "That _would _explain it."

"What would?"

"You muggles and your politics and war. Do you expect us to keep up?"

"Yes."

"Hmmph."

Shlomi paused, then spoke, "Well... Can you exchange it, then?"

"No."

"Why the hell not? It's money!"

"The problem, sir, is that we do not know how much this _shekel _is worth."

Shlomi was getting angry.

"I don't know... I think somewhere between five and ten of them is worth about a pound?"

"So, you expect the finest banking institution in the world to take your word, a _muggle, _at face value... Regarding economic issues, I might add?"

"Yes."  
"And why is this?"

"Because I actually use this damn money every day of my life and know for a hard fact it's worth something. See these clothes? They're damn fashionable in Israel, and I remember handing over the cash! It hurt deeply, so it has worth!"

The goblin sighed.

"Sir, as much as it pains me to forgo charging a massive interest rate on any exchange with muggle money, I'm going to have to say no. I will, however, send a message to a contact in the muggle banking world who can perhaps help with this conundrum. Please come back tomorrow."

"Shit!"

"Please calm down."

Ziad guided Shlomi out of the bank, trying to console him.

"Look, we can just go to a bank out in London and exchange it, right?"

"Yeah, but it's a pain in the ass!"

"Better than starving on the street because you don't want to exchange money."

"True."

And so they ignominiously left the wizarding world behind them.

Ziad sighed sadly as the brick wall closed. He turned away, and re-entered the muggle world.

* * *

Author's Note:

Sorry for not posting for so long. I've been even busier than usual.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter, and the story as a whole.


	16. Lifehammer

Chapter 16

After exchanging his shekels for pounds in muggle London, Shlomi looked a little less amused at the quirks of the wizarding world.

When Ziad wand-tapped their way back into Diagon Alley, their first sight was, of all people, young Marcus Twombley, formerly lieutenant of Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts, walking down the street with his parents.

Twombley spotted Ziad, dropped his bags, snapped to attention, and delivered a crisp salute.

_"As-salamu alaykum, _Director!"

_"Wa alaykum al-salaam, _Lt. Twombley. How was your summer?"

"It was quite enjoyable, sir. I did not encounter any zionists on my trip to the French Riviera, but the place was teeming with infidels."

"Hmmm... That would be annoying, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed, sir."

Shlomi and Twombley's parents stared at him. Shlomi looked at Ziad.

"What the hell have you done to this kid?" he said in Arabic.

"Um... I recruited him to an organization that acted to destroy one of our teachers, who was a mole for the Ministry of Magic."

"And was this organization based on certain organizations that I have spent the last twelve years of my life fighting?"

"I will not answer for fear of incriminating myself in a future court of law."

"Real classy, Ziad. Way to break down ethnic stereotypes."

"I couldn't help it!"

"Hmmph."

Meanwhile, Lt. Twombley's parents were barraging him with dangerous questions like "What the hell are you talking about?" and "What the hell does 'assy llama lake womb mean?'"

Twombley stoically resisted all attempts by the infidels to interrogate him. Ziad offered him a mental field-promotion to acting-Captain Twombley and a Gold Star for Valor in the Face of Extreme Trials and Tribulations.

Before Twombley's parents water-boarded him, Ziad burst him from his prison.

"It's just our little joke, Mrs. Twombley. Nothing to worry about, or contact the police about."

"What?"

"Just a little joke."

Shlomi butted in, "It was nice meeting you." Then, he whispered to Ziad in Arabic, "Let's go before my Mossad friends appear and shoot you in the face!"

Shlomi and Ziad walked back down the street towards Gringotts. This time, they were able to exchange the British pounds for Galleons quite easily.

"Shekels are better than pounds!" Shlomi shouted as the doors swung shut behind them.

"Cool it, Shlomi," muttered Ziad. "Don't want the Goblin police on our asses, do we?"

"The goblins have police?!"

"Wouldn't put it past them."

"Shit! Wizards and their ilk are bloody everywhere!"

"Watch your back, okay?"

Shlomi looked a little perturbed, "I will... I will. And I have the means to not just watch my back, but protect it too." He reached into his satchel and showed Ziad the large and very powerful looking handgun hidden inside.

"One of the perks of your portkeys is that I can bring whatever the hell I want to in country without the customs or border security of either Israel or Britain checking my stuff. If I wanted to smuggle things, I'd be filthy stinking rich in just a few months with your power."

Ziad thought about it.

"Well, everyone needs a summer job. And I've got summers ahead of me, don't I?"

Shlomi gave Ziad an appraising look.

"I'm all for the rule of law, but I like the way your mind works. Plus, I really don't want to have to buy you everything. I am on a government salary, after all, and London is bloody expensive."

"Well, I like the idea. I've always wanted to be a gun-runner. It sounds so romantic."

"Indeed."

Ziad and Shlomi made their way back down the street, buying a few things Ziad assumed he'd need in the coming year. One of the perks of becoming unwittingly homeless, effectively orphaned, and then illegally visiting another country was that he had received no correspondence from Hogwarts, meaning he had no bloody clue if he was still enrolled, let alone what school supplies and books he'd need.

This was a fear he kept deep down, as he didn't want to give Shlomi an aneurism.

To be safe, he bought all the books the nice lady at Flourish and Blotts told him were on the Hogwarts list, second to seventh year. He then bought a few new sets of robes and wizarding accoutrements, as he still suffered from the dread plague known by many as puberty.

When he exited the clothing shop and waved towards Shlomi (who had sat on a bench in front of the shop in a position widely recognized as that of men going clothes shopping), Ziad also noticed Harry Potter and his posse walking down the street. Ron nodded at him, but otherwise the dynamic trio left Ziad unnoticed.

"Risk your bloody life, kill somebody, and all you get is a nod, eh?" he said loudly, in Arabic.

Ron glanced back at him, confused, but kept walking.

Shlomi grunted, "Join the club, Ziad. We are the Great Underappreciated. We martyr ourselves and nobody cares."

"We're still alive, so we can't be martyrs. Trust me, I know this kind of stuff."

"Hush, Ziad. You're ruining my grandiose speech."

"Oh, sorry. Continue."

"You've already ruined it."

"Damn."

As Ziad and Shlomi gathered their belongings and began heading back into muggle London, Ziad had an idea.

"Shlomi, I'm going to need some spending money for when I'm at Hogwarts, and need to woo the ladies. Alas, witches don't appreciate Shakespeare, but money talks, with an unidentifiably foreign but deeply attractive voice, no matter where you are. But I don't want to ask you for more money. So, I propose this: Do you have anything that can be quickly smuggled into Britain from Israel that could fetch a high price?"

Shlomi stopped and turned to Ziad and gave him a grave look.

"I work for Israeli internal security. Of course I know people. And if you want, we can start tomorrow."

"Cool."

* * *

That afternoon, Ziad portkeyed their way back to Jerusalem. Shlomi made a few calls, looked some things up in a notebook, and got in his car. He came back two hours later with two large boxes in the trunk.

Ziad looked at the boxes.

"What's in the boxes?"

"That's cheating. Can you get us to Northern Ireland?"

Ziad stared at Shlomi.

"Your moral compass is really shitty! I love it! Yes, I think I can get us there."

* * *

An hour later, they were in a sheep pasture outside Belfast, Northern Ireland.

Ziad shivered.

"Why is it so bloody cold here?"

"Do you really want a geography and meteorology lesson right now?"

"No. It was a rhetorical question."

A dark blue van turned around a hill in the distance and slowly approached the pasture.

Shlomi had his hands firmly gripped around something in his jacket pocket.

The van stopped fify meters away. The back door opened, and half a dozen men jumped out. Each wore a ski mask and carried an assault rifle. Ziad gripped his wand behind his back.

Shlomi muttered to Ziad, in Arabic, "Remember, you're the head dealer. I'm just your hired muscle!"

Ziad nodded.

One of the masked men approached Ziad.

"You got the stuff?"

"Yeah, I got it. You got the money?"

"Show me the stuff first. I'm not stupid."

"Show me the money first. I'm not either."

"Oh yeah? _You _show me the stuff first."

"Oho! Two can play at this game. _You _show me the money first!"

"Damn! You got me this time. Niall, show him the money."

One of the men, presumably Niall, returned to the van and pulled a large suitcase out of the back. It was apparently quite heavy. Niall hefted it over and dropped it in front of Ziad.

It went ker-_thunk. _

Ziad gestured at Shlomi to open it, while whispering, "How much money is it supposed to be?"

His question was answered before Shlomi could reply, "There's two million quid there, like you asked. We don't cheat sellers who offer what you do."

Ziad had to steady himself against one of the large crates to prevent himself from collapsing.

_"TWO MILLION?!" _he hissed at Shlomi. Shlomi just shrugged and unzipped the suitcase, revealing piles and piles and piles of money. More money than had any right to belong in one place.

The leader of the Irishmen turned to Ziad.

"Now you can show us the stuff."

Ziad turned to the boxes. Shlomi pulled a crowbar out of his bag and opened the first box.

Inside were ten or fifteen meter-long missiles.

Shlomi opened the second box.

Inside were three shoulder launchers.

The Irishmen dropped all pretense of badassery and fawned over the weaponry.

"Stinger Missiles? Christ almighty, I can just imaging the fookin' British helicopters falling over Ulster already!"

Ziad turned an even paler shade of white.

The leader of the Irishmen clapped Ziad on the back.

"Boy, if you ever need help from the Irish Republican Army, just say my name."

"Which is...?"

"Dave McCormack."

"Shit."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dave McCormack shook Ziad's hand. "What should we call you? I expect we'll be doing business in the future."

Ziad thought about it, then said, "I am... I am The Director. It's been good doing business with you."

The Irishmen grabbed their missiles, and packed them in the van. The van drove off.

Ziad rounded on Shlomi.

"DID WE JUST SELL STINGER MISSILES TO IRISH TERRORISTS?!"

"Yes."

"WHAT THE FU-"

"Calm down, Ziad. We have the money, and I've notified British intelligence."

"Oh. BUT YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME!"

"Yes, I could have. But that would have ruined the fun."

Ziad sighed, "I seriously question your judgement, sometimes."

Shlomi laughed, "Well, you are two million pounds richer, aren't you?"

Ziad looked at the suitcase.

"Yup."

* * *

Ziad and Shlomi traversed back to Gringotts later that evening, after a fine dinner in Belfast and some shopping at the high-fashion shops of London. Despite his earlier misgivings, it was immensely satisfying to spend twenty minutes counting out cash on the counter at Gringotts, to the growing incredulity of both goblins and customers.

It was even more satisfying to watch that paper turn into gold and silver, which weighed the suitcase down rather more.

It was with ever growing satisfaction that Shlomi and Ziad put on the aviator sunglasses they had bought earlier and walked down Diagon Alley carrying nearly four hundred thousand galleons and wearing custom-tailored Hugo Boss suits.

Ziad dearly wished Parvati could have seen him. It was so badass.

* * *

Author's Note:

Next chapter will feature Ziad's return to Hogwarts, I promise.

Apologies for the short length. Next chapter should be a bit longer than usual to make up for it, if all goes well.

For the uninitiated, a Stinger Missile is a shoulder-fired anti-air missile that was highly sought after during the '80s and '90s for its ability to shoot down helicopters.

For the even more uninitiated (some people know virtually nothing about military things), it's a bazooka that shoots down helicopters and planes.

Irish and other terrorist groups spent a lot of money to get them, or try to get them.


	17. Practical Money Skills For Life

Chapter 17

September 1st happened, as it is wont to do. Time and all that stuff.

Shlomi and Ziad took a bus to King's Cross station, where Ziad had to figure out how the bloody hell to get back onto Platform 9 ¾. See, he had gotten _off _the train at the end of last year, but he had not taken the train _to _Hogwarts, as he had been side-along apparated there in rather a hurry by a harried professor Sprout one evening the previous November.

So it was with great relief that he saw some poorly-dressed people walking through a wall.

"There it is!" he said.

"What?" said Shlomi.

"The entrance."

"Where?"

Ziad pointed.

"What, the wall?"

"Yeah. You walk through it."

Shlomi looked rather skeptical.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Another group of poorly dressed 'muggles' sauntered through the wall, pulling or pushing luggage trolleys along with them.

"You see, where those people are disappearing through the wall? I can't believe you can't see it. It's literally- look! Somebody _just _walked through a wall right in front of you!"

"Nope."

Ziad was perplexed.

"Must be some magical thing," muttered Shlomi.

"Probably. Which would, if a logical progression is followed, would present us with the problem of whether or not you can actually travel through the barrier."

"Hmm... Well I suppose you are physically and mentally capable of getting on a train without my help?"

"I should hope so."

"Good."

Ziad and Shlomi bid their farewells. They exchanged a very masculine bro-hug, and one single solitary tear fell down Ziad's cheek.

"See you, bro," sniffed Shlomi.

"If you have any more weapons you need to sell, just hit me up, okay?" Ziad sniffed back.

"Yeah, of course. You got the money on you?"

Ziad patted the suitcase, still stuffed with money.

"Yeah. I'll... I'll write you, okay?"

"Cool."

They put their hands in their pockets and scuffed their feet.

"Well..."

"Yeah..."

"Um..."

"I'll see you, then?"

"Yeah."

"Bye, Shlomi."

"Bye, Ziad."

Ziad turned and pushed the trolley loaded with his fashionable new wardrobe and several hundred thousand galleons through the barrier and onto Platform 9 ¾.

* * *

Ziad had arrived at the station somewhat earlier than most, so he was able to find a rare empty compartment on the train. His bag of money occupied most of the seat next to him.

It made a satisfying _clink _noise when he set his book on top of it.

"Are these seats taken?"

Ziad looked up and smiled.

"Hey, Parvati. Hey Padma."

The twins sat down across from him.

"I guess you're not dead, then?" began Parvati.

"What the hell happened?" Padma continued.

Ziad leaned back and sighed. "It's a long story. Before I tell it, though, I'd like you two to swear that you won't tell everybody, because some of it is pretty embarrassing. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

So Ziad told them the story of his summer after the bus-bombing. He left out a lot, because somehow he felt that his becoming an international arms dealer, among other things, just wouldn't ingratiate him with the two people he actually had sort of been friends with last year.

On the other hand, he did embellish certain aspects. Instead of a terrifying, quick, and confusing affair, Ziad described the gunfight in Lebanon as something out of a Sylvester Stallone movie. Lots more one-handed machine-gunning and ripped sleeveless shirts.

The twins were, thankfully, sufficiently wowed by his summer that they went to sleep when he was monologuing about the benefits of Galil assault rifles used by the Israelis versus the Kalashnikovs used by the Hezbollah fighters in Lebanon.

* * *

Unfortunately for Ziad, a certain blonde Slytherin decided it would be funny to enter the compartment while Parvati spoke of the Patil's summer.

"Oh, hello. It's the brown bunch, is it?" he sneered, his two fit flunkies flanking him.

"You know, Malfoy, you're the only wizard I've met who's racist. Why is that?" Parvati said.

"Because I actually know things about your people that would make your hair curl."

Ziad laughed. "I'm sure you know more about us than we do. Care to expound?" He rested his arm on his money-bag. A bad idea, as it turned out.

The bag went _clink. _

"Oh, shit."

"What's in the bag?"

Malfoy lunged for the aforementioned bag, and reached it before Ziad could. His minions entered the compartment and pinned Ziad to the window.

Malfoy unzipped the bag and gasped, all pretense and sneering suddenly gone in the face of an impressive amount of cash.

"Bloody hell..."

"I obtained that money through legal means!" Ziad shouted around Crabbe's stranglehold.

"Sure you did." Malfoy dumped the money out onto the floor. It formed quite a large pile, and even spilled out into the corridor.

"I believe that I, Draco Malfoy, will have to confiscate this money in order to present it to the Ministry. I think they would want to hear about the crimes you surely committed to obtain such a large sum."

Malfoy began greedily scooping the money into his pockets, and was, unfortunately for them, followed by his minions. The three Slytherins fumbled around on the floor until they realized their tactically unsound position.

This weakness was quickly exploited by two stunners (from the Patil twins) and a kick (from Ziad).

"Well, that solves that."

Parvati and Padma turned their attention from the sunken Slytherins to Ziad.

"Why the hell do you have all this money? I think you left that out of your little speech."

Ziad swept all the money back into his suitcase (which took quite some time) before replying.

"Well, let's just say I sold missiles to the IRA and leave it at that."

"What?"

"I'll leave it up to you to figure that one out."

Ziad shoved the Slytherins out into the hall. Malfoy, his nose now broken due to getting unfortunately close to Ziad's shoe really quickly, groaned and gripped his bleeding face before Parvati hit him with a stunner.

* * *

The rest of the journey passed largely without incident. Harry Potter did stop by, looking like he was trying to be stealthy (and therefore failing miserably), and asked why Malfoy was lying on the ground with blood all over his face. He left soon after Ziad told him of their violent encounter, stopping only to hover over Malfoy's sleeve for a minute. Harry rolled it back, gasped at something, rolled it back down, and quickly walked away.

"Do you know what that was about?" asked Padma.

"Nope." answered Parvati, before turning back to Ziad. "I'm going to want to know why you're walking around with a bloody fortune in a suitcase. You better tell me eventually, or we're no longer friends."

Ziad sighed. He was conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to maintain the only real friendship he had in Britain. On the other hand, he had become an international arms dealer over the summer, and (he thought somewhat guiltily), that's not really a quality that most parents look for when approving of their daughter's potential life partner.

Ziad imagined that conversation.

_"So..." growled the imposing, faceless parents of whatever poor girl decided to like Ziad more than most people. "How do you plan on supporting yourself financially?"_

_Ziad would reply, "Well, I've begun selling high-value weapons to international terrorist groups, but I plan on going larger scale. There are a number of ongoing conflicts in Africa and Eastern Europe, not to mention the ever-present arms market in Palestine, that are drawing my interest. I expect to roll in about 20 million pounds a year, if the market is slow. 100 million is more realistic, considering my talents."_

_"Is that so?" respond the Parents._

_"Indeed," Ziad would answer. "In addition, there is a very lucrative market for weapons in Colombia and Latin America, what with the ongoing drug conflict. Those cartels would pay a pretty penny for the kind of upgrades I could get them. Imagine cartel-controlled attack helicopters, bombers, rocket launchers, tanks. Hell, I could probably get them their own navy, if they paid me enough."_

_"Do you believe that is good enough for our daughter?"_

"Ziad!"

_"I think so. I'll be able to support her financially as well as use my inevitable political and social connections to keep her safe and happy. And, let's face it, being an international arms dealer is kind of badass."_

"Ziad!"

_"Oh, is that what you think? It sounds awfully dangerous to me. What if hired assassins kill or hurt our daughter?"_

"Ziad!"

_"Don't worry, ma'am. I'll be able to hire the best the private security market has to offer. She'll be safe."_

"Ziad! We're there!"

"Plus I'll be making enough... Wait what?"

Parvati and Padma stared at him.

"Get your head out of the clouds, bomb-boy. We're there. At Hogwarts. You know, the school?"

"Oh. Okay."

"You're a weird person, you know that?"

Ziad smiled.

"Yup."

The three of them filed off the train, Ziad with his money slung over his shoulder like a soldier carrying a large weapon. Fortunately for Ziad, this weapon was purely metaphysical. He didn't, after all, want to be _that guy _who brings a gun to school and says something like, "I totally didn't know I had it on me! I'm toootally not going to shoot up the school!"

They boarded the carriages and returned to the castle.

* * *

Ziad, for the first time, got to see the opening feast ceremony. It wasn't that interesting. He was mainly just hungry, and annoyed at the odd looks and questions he got regarding his money bag.

He was most annoyed, but also slightly intrigued, by one of these encounters.

"Hey mate, what's in the bag?" were the first words Seamus Finnegan said when they bumped into each other before entering the hall.

"Four-hundred thousand galleons."

"Come on, man, pull the other one. It's got chimes on it."

"The phrase is, 'It's got bells on it.'"

"That's what I said."

"Seamus, let's face it. You said chimes."

"Chimes and bells, what's the difference?"

"They're two completely different musical instruments!"

"Ziad, I realize that English wasn't your first language, so I forgive you."

"Bloody hell, Seamus! Chimes and bells are almost entirely unrelated!"

"Look, I'll get a dictionary, and we'll settle this. I'mma bet five galleons that there is not a significant enough difference between the two words for you to have gotten this upset about it."

"I meet your five pounds and raise you to a hundred!"

Seamus backed up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don't have that kind of cash. I'll raise it to ten, okay? No more."

"Done."

They stood there awkwardly, looking heatedly at each other.

"It's just a saying, you know." said Seamus.

"Yeah, but you have to get it right, or else it doesn't make sense. Have you even seen chimes before? How the hell are you going to attach those to your leg in such a way as to make a ringing noise when the aforementioned leg is pulled? It's bloody ridiculous!"

"Ziad, it's perfectly obvious." responded Seamus.

"Oh really? Tell me. I'm sooo curious."

"Look. You attach the chimes to your pants-leg securely, so they're not flapping around. With me so far? Good. So then you attach a free-swinging little chime-hammer thing, that swings in both directions, so that when the leg is indeed pulled or otherwise disturbed, the little chime-hammer thing will swing, impacting the chime and creating the necessary noise."

Ziad thought about it.

"But wouldn't it have to be so that the chime-hammer thing is located at the center of the device, swinging in a 180 degree arc left or right onto a chime that has been altered so that both ends resonate upon impact? I feel that this would prove most effective out of all the options."

Seamus pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from his bag as the crowds streamed past them into the hall. Parvati rolled her eyes at Padma and the two of them left Ziad behind and followed the crowd.

Ziad peered over Seamus' shoulder, forehead creased in concentration as Seamus sketched out a rough design.

"See, I think you're right in that the chime, for the best resonance with regards to random leg-disturbance, would indeed have to be double-sided. However, the resonating ends would likely have to be lengthened to make up for the loss in resonating space created by the placement of the hammer in the center, which would in turn mean the length of the hammer would also have to be increased. So we would either have to scale down the overall size of the device, or attach large chimes to our legs, which is just absurd."

Ziad nodded. "How fast do you think you could produce these chime-trousers?"

"I don't know, but with current magical chime and trouser production capabilities, I'd give a rough estimate of four pairs a week, with my current-... Wait, what the hell are we talking about?"

Seamus shook himself. Ziad followed suit. A spell (not in the literal, magical sense but the more metaphorical sense) seemed to have been broken.

"Um..."

"We should probably go eat, or something."

"Yeah."

"I'll... I'll see you later?"

"Yeah."

"Bye."

"Mmm."

Seamus and Ziad made their seperate ways into the Great Hall, sat down, and ate.

"What were you and Seamus talking about?" asked one of the many unnamed Hufflepuffs at the table.

"Trouser Chimes."

"What?"

"We're going to make millions."

"Uh huh..." The Hufflepuff returned to his meal.

Ziad chewed on his salad. He thought about the conversation he and Seamus had just had. Then he had an idea.

"Eureka?"

"Why the questioning voice?" asked the unnamed Hufflepuff.

"Because I'm pretty sure the... I shouldn't tell you."

_Because this idea is bloody brilliant! _Ziad thought to himself. _And it will make selling weapons to terrorists so much more effective! And fun! For the whole bloodthirsty radical family!_

* * *

Author's Note:

And at last Ziad is back at the looney bin called Hogwarts. His schemes are just beginning.

Enjoy!


	18. Good Behavior

Chapter 18

Ziad was quite relieved when, the next morning, he was provided with a schedule. It appeared that he was to take a bizarre mixture of second and third year classes. According to professor Sprout, "You're more advanced than most second years in potions and herbology. Don't tell anyone I said this, but the more practical classes."

Ziad didn't particularly care either way. The way he was planning his life did not, by and large, involve magic any more than he was already doing. Yet he did not wish to abandon Hogwarts, because, to put it simply, he didn't have much else to do.

His first class was potions. It had always been his favorite class, because he didn't need special skills in some stupid shit he didn't know and was therefore useless.

Plus, professor Snape was a cold hard badass, and Ziad respected that in a man. Especially if that man had the balls to be as obviously evil as Snape.

This lesson began somewhat more eventfully than Ziad had otherwise hoped.

"Mr. Jarrah, you appear to have been accelerated to my third-year class. Are you prepared?"

Ziad thought it over before answering, "I have absolutely no idea."

"Ah. Mr. Jarrah, did you do the assigned summer reading?"

"No."

Snape sneered.

"And why not?

"Do you want the long story or the short story?"

"In the interest of saving time, give us the short story."

"Well, first I was homeless. Then I was in Israel. Then I was blown up. Then I was in a coma. Then I was in Britain with no money. Now I'm here."

Even Snape looked surprised.

"Interesting. Well, do you at least have the textbook?"

"I do have that."

"Excellent." He addressed the class, "Please turn to page 10 and prepare the potion listed on that page."

Ziad removed the textbook from his bag, turned to page 10, and began.

* * *

The rest of his first week was very uneventful. Uneventful for a given value of "eventful." To explain this further, his first week would have been very eventful for somebody who has spent the last fifty years in solitary confinement. However, for a Hogwarts student, it was quite normal.

That Friday, before lunch, Ziad met Seamus.

"Have you improved the design for the Trouser-Chimes?"

Seamus glanced around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping.

"Yeah, I have. They're almost certain to work."

Ziad rubbed his hands together.

"Excellent... Can you make a prototype? We need to begin marketing."

"I could. But why? Who in their right mind would buy something this absurd?"

Ziad put his arms around Seamus's shoulders conspiratorially.

"Can I trust you?"

"Of course!"

"Let me put it this way: I have recently come into rather a lot of money. I need a way to make it seem legitimate. In addition, I have plans for making much, much, _much _more money."

"What're the plans?"

"Now that would be telling. Let's just say it's not exactly, how should I put this, _legal."_

"Ah. So you want to produce and sell Trouser-Chimes as a cover for this _sublegal _business venture of yours?"

"That's correct. Now, dear Seamus, if you prove yourself to be trustworthy, I may let you join my nefarious business. However, due to its sensitive nature and, dare I say it, inherent danger, I will only do so if you truly prove yourself."

Seamus nodded, "Of course."

* * *

By Saturday morning, Seamus had produced the model X-177 Trouser-Chime prototype.

It was a pair of trousers.

With chimes on it.

"It's beautiful!" said Ziad.

"It does have a strange sort of animalistic beauty about it, doesn't it?" said Seamus, his voice full of awe.

* * *

By Saturday afternoon, Ziad and Seamus had placed over a hundred advertisements around the school.

By monday morning, they had received thirty orders.

"I honestly didn't expect us to actually sell any yet." said Seamus in their classroom-turned-production facility.

"Neither did I," said Ziad, as he charmed another chime onto a pair of trousers.

For the rest of the weak, Ziad and Seamus wore Trouser-Chimes around Hogwarts to advertise their benefits of looking and sounding awesome. Ziad received dozens of compliments.

"Magical people are crazy," he concluded, at the end of the first day, "If I wore these in the muggle world, I'd either be shot or put in an asylum."

Seamus didn't respond, but he lovingly tweaked his pants. It was very, _very _strange.

By the next Saturday, they had sold nearly one hundred pairs of Trouser-Chimes.

A week later, they had sold out their entire stock. They went into production once again. They even hired some first-years to do most of the grunt work.

The soft cacophony of chimes filled the school.

Money began rolling into Seamus and Ziad's pockets.

* * *

Ziad also worked on his other money-making venture, this one a little less benign. That first Saturday, he sent a letter to Shlomi.

_Shlomi,_

_I will have the opportunity to do more business in three weeks time, on a Saturday. Reply with information._

_-Ziad_

Shlomi's reply was prompt and equally terse.

_Ziad,_

_I have a sale lined up. Be ready._

_Five hundred thousand is the number._

_-Shlomi._

_P.S. Start signing and writing with our codenames. Mine is "The Atomic Child."_

Ziad replied,

_Atomic Child,_

_That name is stupid. Come up with something less childish (if you'll pardon the pun)._

_-The Director_

Shlomi replied,

_Director,_

_Are you kidding me? That name is awesome! But if you insist, I can be something a little less conspicuous. How about Gus?_

_-The Atomic Child/Gus_

Ziad replied,

_Dear Gus,_

_You can be Gus. _

_-The Director_

* * *

Then, The Day arrived. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to get to where he needed to be; namely, Jerusalem. Ziad made his way to the village with Parvati and Padma before disappearing into a side street and quickly changing into his new custom-tailored suit and aviators. Ziad Jarrah became The Director.

He made a portkey and disappeared.

Ziad reappeared two thousand miles away in Shlomi's kitchen in Jerusalem.

Shlomi was waiting, wearing his own suit and sunglasses. He nodded gravely at Ziad.

"The product is in a warehouse outside of town. Come."

They climbed into Shlomi's car and drove out into the outskirts of the city. They arrived at the aforementioned warehouse, which looked incredibly sketchy. Broken windows, rusted metal, and filthy concrete.

"It's perfect," sighed Ziad wistfully.

"The atmosphere is really good, isn't it?"

Ziad and Shlomi entered the dingy, dusty, dirty, alliterative warehouse. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the broken windows, wavering in the dusty air. Inside were several crates, their tops lying on the stained cement next to them. In the crates were rifles. Lots and lots of rifles.

"It's a thousand M-16s and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition," said Shlomi, "We're taking them to an East Timorese rebel group called Falintil. They've been fighting for independence from Indonesia since 1975."

"Do you have a picture of the drop-off point?"

"Indeed I do." Shlomi removed a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Ziad.

Ziad stared at the photo, committing it to memory. He then removed an old sock from his suit pocket and turned it into a portkey.

"Can we lash those crates together?" he said.

Shlomi nodded and did so with a rope he had brought from his house.

"Grab on," said Ziad.

Shlomi held tightly to the rope that tied the crates together and touched the sock along with Ziad.

They disappeared.

They reappeared in a jungle clearing. Ziad was bowled over by the sudden heat and humidity. Bugs buzzed all around them.

A group of men dressed in camouflage appeared out of the jungle, rifles slung over their shoulders. The men noticed Ziad and Shlomi, who stuck out like a forest of sore thumbs in their shiny, fashionable suits and sunglasses. The men unslung their rifles and advanced cautiously.

Shlomi stared at them intently.

"Oh shit."

"What?"

"Those aren't our contacts. Those are Komando Pasukan Katak, Indonesian naval special forces. We've been compromised."

"I don't think you need to show off your knowledge of international militaries right now."

"And I don't think you need to be such a smart-ass at a moment like this!"

"Oh, so now we're arguing. Come on!"

"Shut up Ziad! We need to get out of here, now!"

Ziad cast around for the sock, and saw it lying twenty feet away. A snake had taken up residence on it.

"Shit."

He cast around for an object he could make another portkey out of and grabbed the first thing he could. It turned out that he had very bad luck.

The first thing he could grab was one of the rifles. The Indonesian soldiers shouted at them, raised their rifles, and flicked off their safeties.

Then the Indonesian soldiers fell to the ground in puffs of blood, accompanied by loud cracks.

"Well, that was a freebie," said Ziad happily.

"You can say that again," mumbled Shlomi.

Yet another group of armed men materialized from the jungle, but this one was less well-uniformed.

"I'm assuming these are our contacts?" asked Ziad, "Because I can get us out of here, if necessary."

Shlomi stared at the men before saying, "Those are our contacts."

The men walked over. One man wore a scarf to cover his face. He stepped forward and gestured at the crates.

"Is this all we ordered?" he asked, his voice muffled but barely tinged with an accent.

Ziad became _The Director _once more.

"One thousand M-16's and one hundred thousand rounds of ammo, at discount prices?"

"Indeed." He then shouted at his men to unload the crates.

"Our money?" asked Ziad.

The masked man removed the bag from his back and tossed it to Ziad, who fumbled the catch.

Ziad bent over and unzipped the bag, which had fallen to the ground. Inside were American dollars. A lot of them. Ziad handed the bag to Shlomi.

"Count it, Gus."

Shlomi flipped one of the crates over and used that as a table to dump the cash out and count it.

He finished and nodded at Ziad.

"It's all here, Director."

"Excellent."

The leader of the Timorese rebels talked to his men, who had been examining their purchase. They nodded at him.

The leader turned to Ziad and said, "Thank you. I appreciate doing business with you."

The rebels loaded down with rifles and bullets before disappearing into the jungle, stopping only to relieve the dead Indonesians of their weapons and ammunition.

Ziad turned to Shlomi.

"Are we just going to leave those bodies there?"

Shlomi thought about it.

"We're going to have to move them. If they find those bodies here, this spot will be compromised, and we may be doing business with Falantil again in the future."

Ziad walked over to the half-dozen bodies. Flies were gathering on the bloodstained corpses. He walked back to the empty crates and took the rope that had been used to lash them together and lashed the bodies together with Shlomi's help.

Then they portkeyed back to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, bodies in tow.

"Were is this?" asked Shlomi.

"Northern Scotland."

"Ah. This should work."

They buried the bodies underneath the loam of the forest.

"Indonesia is mostly Muslim, right?" asked Ziad.

"I think so."

Ziad nodded, knelt down, and said a short prayer.

Ziad stood, brushed his suit off, and glanced at the burial site. The loam was bloody, and a few arms or legs stuck out conspicuously.

"If someone was standing right here, they'd notice the bodies. But I don't think anyone is going to come out here from the village, and we're not implicated in any way," said Shlomi.

Then it all went to hell.

* * *

Author's Note:

And so school begins and Ziad begins his plans.

A little background information for those who don't already know it:

East Timor was a Portuguese colony until 1974, when it became independent. Indonesia quickly occupied it in 1975, and claimed it as a province of Indonesia. The next twenty four years were pretty brutal for East Timor, with about 100,000 dying. Falintil was a rebel group constituted from local Portuguese-trained garrison troops in 1975 to fight Indonesian occupation, and continued doing so until 1999.

East Timor finally gained its final independence in 1999, but those events occur after the timeline of Ziad's story. But I believe that the sudden acquisition by Falintil of such a large number of weapons might speed up that independence... Or maybe not. We'll never know.


End file.
